Curse of the Reapers
by deanine
Summary: In a world under the thumb of an ancient emperor, Muggle society has been oppressed beyond recognition. Wizards rule over all, society organized by power. This is the story of a broken family scattered by a perpetual war, and the bonds that lead home. AU
1. Prologue

**The Curse of the Reapers**

**Prologue**

**The Prophesy**

957 AD – The Throne Chamber of the Emperor Turpin

Curved damp stone walls encased the inner court of the Emperor Turpin. Those unadorned walls seemed too close, almost suffocating. The gray mould clinging to the stones soaked up the dancing torchlight, reluctantly sharing glimmers of it with the rest of the room. The emperor, a small man with snowy white hair clipped close, sat silently on his gargantuan throne. His eyes were closed, his forehead smooth and unworried. A naïve girl might almost believe that the emperor dozed casually. Spero, the newest addition to the inner court, the emperor's new Seer, wasn't naïve or a child, and she wasn't fooled by the harmless facade. She tugged at the crimson, diaphanous robes she had been issued three days earlier and tried to disappear into the shadow cast by the emperor's throne. Seers who stayed out of sight and out of mind were more likely to survive this court. Spero was terrified of making a mistake. She was scarcely fifteen, and just pretty enough to get noticed if she wasn't careful.

The last Seer got herself noticed. She caused quite a stir, and now she was dead. According to the rumours, Turpin had killed her himself. He hadn't even bothered to open his eyes, cursing her to death as though it were an afterthought. Well, Spero wasn't going out that way if she could help it. If she didn't make any useful prophesies for long enough, maybe they would just replace her?

The touch of his cool thin hand almost caused Spero to scream. She'd been so focused on disappearing into the shadows, on being invisible that she stopped watching the dragon in the room. The emperor had come alive during her distraction and he had taken notice of his new pet. Spero made herself breathe a regular slow rhythm, and her heart slowed enough for her to risk looking at Emperor Turpin. His eyes, a pair of slick black orbs, were waiting for her brown eyes to find them. Spero tried to look away, to focus on the man's hawk-like nose or his sallow grey cheeks, but she was caught.

The emperor was speaking to her, asking a question, but Spero couldn't understand the words rolling over her ears. She was slipping into a different trap than the emperor's eyes, a familiar trap, the cool nothingness that heralded a prophecy. Some seers didn't get the privilege of hearing their own predictions, but Spero had never had that problem. Unfortunately, she'd never been able to stop a prophecy once it started either. Her voice was coming clearly now, sonorous and low in the self-important tone that the spirits of destiny insisted upon when doling out their hints at fate.

_Turpin, emperor of the world, shall rule his kingdom, until the coming of the seven.  
They will be born of a mortal line, non-magic by ancestry, but powerful and wise.  
Both man and woman, they will embody the pinnacles of spirit in mortal humanity._

Courage.  
Humility.  
Discipline.  
Respect.  
Peace.  
Love.  
Charity.

At the time of changes, pubescence, they will be chosen, seven strong always and forever.  
Should one fall, another will be chosen to take their place from this day forward.  
Only together can the seven end Turpin's rein.

Together they will be drawn, impotent, and empty.  
Until love unites them, the seven will toil without light.  
Until love unites them, Turpin shall rule.

And Spero was in control of herself again. Her mouth, her voice, were hers to command, but it was too late to undo the damage that had been done. She'd just prophesied the end of Turpin's rein, the emperor who had ruled the world as his own kingdom for half a millennia. You didn't have to be a seer to know how quickly Turpin was likely to kill the messenger bearing such doom. Spero closed her eyes and waited for her inevitable death.

"Interesting," Turpin muttered. "A real seer with a useful prophecy, refreshing. You present me with a problem though, little Spero. How to thwart fate as the old hag seems to have turned on me."

Spero opened her eyes again, hopeful that maybe she wasn't going to die tonight. The emperor's voice, now that she'd had a chance to really hear it, was smooth, almost youthful in its melodic tones. "I don't know how to thwart fate, my Emperor. I don't even know why she burdens me with her whisperings."

"Little Spero, so young. I know how to thwart fate. Every day of my life I thumb my nose at her and her friend death. You could help me; shed your blood for me tonight, the blood of my seer to thwart my new destiny. My new seer could be my seer for always."

Turpin's hand was moving now, stroking his Spero's shiny black hair, her smooth copper child-smooth skin. "Your seer, for always?" Spero whispered. She was falling again, not into another prophesy. She was falling into the Emperor's black eyes, warm tunnels where his voice was like the wind and his hands were smooth spikes of pleasure on her skin. This man couldn't be the ancient emperor she had been so afraid of. This could not be the Terrible Turpin she'd dreaded so. "I will help you in any way I can, Emperor."

Turpin's smile grew, and he kissed the child seer he had just enthralled. "Drink from the elixir of life, and join me, little Spero."

* * *

The Betrayal

1985 AD – The Misty Forest South of London 12:30 AM

"James!"

"Commander Potter!"

"Go! Go! Go! Go!"

The night's silence was shattered, as two witches, a blonde and a redhead, came crashing through the undergrowth. They piled headlong onto an extra-large flying carpet hovering at the ready for their escape. James waited at the control weave just long enough to be sure the ladies were safely aboard, then he was steering them up above the trees. James could hear whatever was chasing the girls grinding its way forward through the forest. He could see the ancient hardwoods flying from side to side now that he was gaining altitude.

"What the heck did you girls rile up back there?" James asked. Goosebumps were rising on his arms at the thought of whatever was tossing around the oaks getting a hand on Lily or any of his soldiers.

Tina laughed and brandished a paper-wrapped sphere victoriously. "Does it matter what we riled up? We got the goods, Commander. I told you I was the woman for this mission, Sir," Tina shouted to be heard over the rushing wind.

"Right," Lily muttered, picking brambles out of her red mane. With an annoyed gesture she indicated that Tina should stop waving around the valuable artifact they'd just risked their lives to steal. James didn't notice, of course. He was concentrating on flying them out of danger. "It was a Rock Golem, nasty creature," Lily said. She didn't add that they might have made it in and out without waking the cranky creature if Tina had been able to keep her mouth shut for more than five seconds at a time. That was a conversation she could have with the girl when they weren't in front of James, her commander.

The Misty Forest was beautiful and seemingly endless from their vantage point skimming just above the tops of the trees. The forest was ancient, a haven for all the magical creatures indigenous to the British Isles. Incongruous as it seemed, London was surrounded by the forest on all sides. Without the magic of the current regime protecting its boundaries the city would be consumed by the forest. Lily couldn't see any lights or other sign that they were approaching the Rebel's encampment, but she could tell by the stars and the amount of time they'd been flying, they were getting close to home.

The adrenaline seemed to have faded and Tina wasn't making herself quite so noisome when they made their approach to the barracks where she'd be taking her leave. "I'll take that," Lily said. She relieved Tina of the artifact they were nearly crushed trying to retrieve. The mission had actually taken them more than seven days scouting in the field, and Lily just wanted to pick up the kids and get home. With the third wheel gone, Lily tucked their artifact safely away and snuggled closer to James, her courageous rebel commander. There was light on the horizon, dawn already? It wasn't time for dawn. "James, what is that light?"

"I don't know," James replied. It was a golden glow, like a fire burning out of control in the forest. Except that a fire there would have engulfed the safe zone and the children's nanny service, so it couldn't be a fire. "It can't be." James inched his hand over to the speed control weave, accelerating the carpet to and beyond its safety limits. The glow just turned into a flickering shooting light, and an audible roar could be hear even over the wind. They were headed for a wall of flame. A lightning strike or a rampaging dragon could set off a blaze in the Misty Forest. It was a risk the rebels had learned to anticipate and mitigate. There was no reason to panic.

"The babies," Lily barely whispered. There was a reason the children were left with central nursery. It was safe twenty-four-hour coverage. Someone would have been awake and alert and the children would be safe. They had to be. "Where do they send the children when there's an emergency? HQ? They'll be at HQ right?"

"We're going to find them," James said. The carpet was just hovering now. He had had to stop advancing. It was too dangerous to head over the flames in the carpet. He wasn't going to risk Lily, racing into an inferno, when the children were safely away with their carers. "I'm going to back us up to headquarters. There are crews working on putting out the fire there." Teams of rebels on brooms swooped around the conflagration casting barrier spells, water spells, anything to keep the flames from burning toward the rest of the rebel encampment. "Everything looks like it's under control. Hold on now. I'm going to see how fast this rug will go."

* * *

A young man with thin flyaway brown hair shuffled his feet nervously as he waited under the tangled branches of the Misty Forest. Smoke was in the air, acrid and eye-watering. Not that he could really complain, having set the fire himself not two hours earlier. Overly conscious of his overbite and weak chin, he instinctively jutted his jaw out and twitched his nose in a maneuver that was almost rodent-like.

"Peter Pettigrew?"

Turning the young man nodded quickly. "Yes, who is it there?"

Out of the shadows, a woman appeared. The intricate gold encircling her forearms over slinky black robes marked her position as one of the ancients, one of Turpin's inner sect of followers. She was beautiful and exotic, like an Egyptian princess. Peter was jutting and twitching with his face reflexively, completely unaware of the verminous expression he was projecting. "You are Ocascia, the woman I have been exchanging owls with?"

"Yes Peter, we have been corresponding. Do you have my package?" Ocascia said.

"Of course, all here, but first, do you have my payment?" Peter asked.

Ocascia looked up from under her painted eyelids and drew her lips together in a carefully calculated pout. "You want your money?" With a lazy laugh she tossed a black bag of gold to the rat-faced boy. It landed at his feet with a heavy thud. While Peter scrambled through the sack, verifying its contents, Ocascia scanned the area for her package, the goods as it were. It took a moment but she could just see the outline of the cage Peter had disillusioned for safe keeping. She couldn't see the children within, but judging from the quiet, he had rendered them unconscious for their trip. "Thoughtful of you, Peter, to get everything ready for travel." Ocascia levitated the cage with a flick of her wand, and she took a calculated step toward Peter. From his vantage point on the ground, her flimsy robe with its many slits would leave little to the imagination. She wanted rat-boy to get a good look, enjoy the experience. With a bit of luck they could do business again. "They've all got Muggle heritage, confirmed, correct?"

It was several beats before Peter could tear his eyes from the view to nod an answer to Ocascia's question. "You'll write again, if I can be of any more help?"

"Of course Peter, we're going to be fast friends."

* * *

The lobby of headquarters was packed to overflowing with displaced rebels. The western safe zone had been completely evacuated and the people were making do in the closest thing to a shelter the rebels had. She didn't blame the crush of humanity around her for coming in out of the cold. Lily just wished there was room to pace properly. James told her to stay put while he used his clearance to locate their children, but the waiting was driving her mad. All she wanted was to see her babies, Harry and his little sister Isobel. She just wanted to hold them and know that they were safely out of danger. What was taking James so long?

Then he was back squeezing his way toward her. James wasn't smiling or projecting the relief Lily needed to see from him now. Damn it, he wasn't allowed to be terrified. "What is it? They're okay."

"I don't know," James said. "It's crazy in here. Maybe Constantine, that was the kid who was on duty tonight, maybe he just hasn't managed to check in yet. There were a dozen children in that nursery station and he has to have his hands full keeping up with them."

"We should head out and look for them. What if they're lost? How old is this Constantine anyway? Is he old enough to do the job?" Lily started shoving her way through the crowd toward the doors, not even waiting to see if James would follow. There were brooms outside, hundreds of them, all with owners huddled around inside. Lily snatched one that looked fast without consideration for the theft. She wasn't going to keep the thing, but she had to get to her children.

Before she could take flight, a tight-flying formation of the firefighters they'd seen earlier swooped in from above. James locked a hand on her shoulder and stepped forward in front of her, to greet the leader of the firefighters. He was a commander and they would report to the first officer they came to. "Did everyone get out? Is the blaze under control yet?"

"The blaze is out, sir," the soot-covered man said. He shot James a sloppy salute. "One team stayed behind to make sure nothing was missed, and we've come to tell most of the people in there that they have homes to return to. As for anyone getting hurt, we did find one casualty so far. My rookie performed the ID spell. We just had a bit of bone to go from. Where we found him, the flames got so hot, there wasn't much left. Allison, what was the ID?"

"Constantine Kertz, sir," Allison replied quickly. "The one ID was strong but I suspect there were other remains nearby. We just didn't have enough left from the other potential casualties for an ID spell to give us anything."

Lily wasn't gifted with divination skills, but she was a logical girl, Muggle-born and practical. She didn't hear the rest of Allison's report, because her mind took a leap of logic that she couldn't face, a leap of logic that couldn't be. She remembered the flames, the heat and the smell. God, she could still smell it in the air, the fire that killed...her babies. It had been burning them, killing them while she'd been working, fiddling with her hair, snuggling close to her husband. Lily hardly recognized the scream pouring out of her throat, echoing through her chest and brain, resonating with the madness tearing through her mind.

James didn't have a chance to react to the news that Constantine, the man who was supposed to see to their children's safety, had perished. A terrible keen like a dying animal erupted from Lily. She started to fold up right there, to collapse, and when he tried to catch her she fought against him, punching wildly, weeping uncontrollably. "It's not true, Lily. They're fine. They're fine." James lied wildly, not believing the words falling from his lips. James managed to lock his arms around Lilly, pinning her arms down, and after a moment she fainted limply in his arms. James sank onto the steps of HQ, cradling his wife against his chest, still unable to deal with the news of his children's likely death. "She's just scared. Constantine was the nursery worker who was supposed to be watching our children, our missing children." A few moments ago, missing had been a scary word with a lot potential meanings, but it felt like a dirge now, a death song, an ending.

James didn't dare unlock his grip on Lily to swipe at the tears that had started leaking from his eyes. "I have to find the children, Harry and Isobel, five and two. They were at nursery station 5, twenty-four hour care. It's the safest place to leave your children. You leave them there because it's SAFE." James wasn't aware that he had begun to rock Lily back and forth. "Can you help me?"

"Yes sir," the head firefighter said. He was looking at them with so much pity. "Me and my team will head back. We'll comb the area until we find something, one way or another, Commander."


	2. A Rebel at Heart

**6 years later - 1991 AD**

**Chapter 1 – A Rebel at Heart**

**History of the World Volume II Chapter 1 The Rule of Turpin – Caste Roles**

_...In his infinite wisdom, our emperor defined society's true form, the pyramid. At the base exist the noble savages, the low humans who know no magic. Their deficiency, separates them from their superiors, those who wield magic, but implies no inherent evilness. Rather non-magical humans are simple creatures, whose lives are too short for true learning, whose minds are too dull for real brilliance._

_The next layer of the pyramid contains the humans' shepherds, the wizards and witches. While blessed and honoured beyond mere humans the second tier of society requires its own shepherds._

_The pinnacle of society is held by the God-wizards and witches, the third tier of society. Turpin's elite guards stand sentinel over all the human societies of Earth, making this imperfect world an Eden of peace and near-perfection..._

* * *

Surrounded on all sides by a sea of sand, the Tower of Erudio rose above the land of Ortus. It persisted like a sturdy weed, sprouting as close to the heart of the empire as any branch of the second tier government was allowed to exist. At its apex, an old man with a long grey beard paced the smooth stone halls. He wore the yellow silk robes of an educator, the crimson hood of a master wizard, and a shiny pair of half-moon spectacles. Albus, Director of the Unified Wizarding School System, paced when he was thinking, worrying, or plotting sedition. Sometimes he thought there should be a furrow in the enchanted slick granite floor from his years of pacing, his legs marking a small percentage of the distance that his mind travelled everyday.

Sedition. Revolution. Treason. Most of the wizarding world would be surprised to discover a respected second tier Governor was not only participating in the world's long-standing rebellion, but had actually been leading the growing movement for nearly four decades. Growing but not succeeding, the rebellion had existed in one form or another almost as long as Turpin had ruled. They had plotted, undermined, attempted assassinations, outright uprisings, often populating their ranks with common humans and nonhuman magic beings only to be extinguished time and again. Despite all the failures, the ember of rebellion never quite died. In its newest incarnation under Dumbledore, the rebellion was a cautious nibbling entity, building foundations within the infrastructure of the empire and whittling away at resources with guerilla warfare.

Pausing at the archway of a rose tinted window, Albus stared at the stark desert and tried to remain patient. He wasn't a young man anymore, and unlike the immortal regime he was fighting, mortality loomed ominously on the horizon for the rebels' leader. Who would carry on with the rebellion when he was gone? Minerva, maybe? She wasn't a young woman anymore herself, and so many of the others had fallen in the course of their slow fight.

What if the next rebel leader didn't understand patience? What if his rebels ended up dead, sacrificed in a grand battle, uselessly murdered in a fight they had no chance to win? They had to wait and learn and listen. If they looked hard enough, fought long enough, built their strength, the rebellion might find a weakness, an answer to Turpin's stagnant rule. Turpin understood patience. He had ruled seamlessly for too many centuries to act rashly. He had extinguished too many rebellions to fear whichever uprising was simmering on the horizon. His enemies invariably grew old and impatient and tired. The emperor's enemies made their moves, their mistakes, and consequently were destroyed over and over again.

With an audible pop, one of Albus's rebel captains made a scheduled appearance, apparating into the center of the room. His long black hair was captured in a neat ponytail. His severe gray eyes still held a twinkle of mischief, leftover from a happy childhood, though he marshaled his face into a pseudo-solemn expression. "Sirius, I'm glad you could make it. Please have a seat." Albus gestured with his wand, conjuring a pair of comfortably cushioned chairs in the center of the room.

Sirius's utilitarian soldier's black robes only hinted at the athletic build they covered. "Sir, thank you. Are you sure it's safe? I mean, I know it's supposed to be, but it just feels exposed out here so close to his Excellency and the undying court. I'm a wanted man you know."

"I've seen the posters. The sheriffs aren't amused by all the mocking your portrait does. I believe the Western Regional Sheriff, your old friend Lucius, finds the poster particularly offensive. He blames your outlaw status on his inability to rise to the third tier. How could his cousin be a rebel?" Albus chuckled. "I would watch my back at the family reunion this year."

"There's no reason to pretend any longer. That's one good thing that came out of my identification, no more visiting the family and pretending to like certain of my cousins," Sirius said. "I know you'll miss the information I used to get out of them over eggnog, but I'm much happier on the front lines, getting my hands dirty."

"And your new command?" Albus asked. "I understand you've been doing very well with your small group. Alastor said you were deadly, precise, and practically invisible."

Sirius leaned forward, pride glimmering in his eyes. "Funny, the only thing Moody ever called me to my face was arrogant, loud-mouthed, and obnoxious."

"Unfortunately, your good work hasn't gone unnoticed by our friends in the regime. You're going to have more to worry about in your district than your cousin the sheriff very soon. They're dispatching an elite team to guard the shipments moving around and through the Misty Forest Region. Have you heard of the Reapers?"

Sirius paled, his joking manner dropped abruptly. The Rebellion wasn't a joke, but it was almost like a game for Sirius much of the time. He enjoyed bucking his family's standards, and he believed in the ideals of the revolution. Hearing that the boogeyman had been dispatched to your neighborhood to keep the peace took some of the fun out of the whole situation. "Who hasn't heard of them? I understood that they never left the capital. I actually thought they were made-up to scare the kids."

"Oh, they're real," Albus said. He wasn't conscious of the haunted look that settled onto his face. He was focusing on a memory, the memory of a Reaper. "They aren't really human, no souls, no heart." Albus traced a finger across the left side of his face. "You'll recognize them by their disfigured faces. A coal black river curls over the left half of their face, a living tattoo that shifts and grows and shrinks as they fight. Their left eye under the tattoo is empty-red. I know that you prefer bloodless missions, achieving your objectives without harming anyone in the process, and I approve. That won't work against these creatures. When you face the Reapers, and you will if they're coming to your forest, use deadly force. If you hesitate, if you give them any chance, they will annihilate you. They will not hesitate."

* * *

Walking through one of the Misty Forest's camps containing a regiment or so of rebel troops, Sirius rode the roller coaster of emotion his encounter with the commander in chief had elicited in him. He was proud of the job he and his troops were doing, and he was terrified of the attention they had attracted in only a few months. The emperor was dispatching his Reapers, legendary enforcers that hadn't left the capitol in at least twenty years. God forgive him, he was excited too, excited to face a new challenge, someone more dangerous than his annoying cousin Malfoy. Outside one of the tents, a group of Gold Dragons, infantry-grunts, were gathered together playing a game of cards, and Sirius waved at them. Those who spotted him started to scramble to their feet. "At ease, gentlemen, I'm looking for your commander. Is he on base?"

"Commander Potter is at the infirmary," one of the soldiers offered.

The soldiers didn't seem as concerned as men whose commander was in serious condition should, so Sirius wasn't overly worried. Winding up in the infirmary happened in their line of work. He was just glad his friend was in camp for a change when he wanted to talk. The infirmary wasn't far. The only white tent in camp, Sirius made a beeline for it. Like all the tents in camp, the infirmary only appeared large enough to comfortably contain a handful of men, but stepping through the door flap revealed a full-size field hospital capable of housing at least a hundred men. Sirius headed over to the nearest healer and smiled at her. "Could you point me in the direction of Commander James Potter's bed?"

The young woman looked up from the stack of parchments she'd been shuffling through, and her plump cheeks burned red at the sight of the handsome captain smiling at her. "Ah, Potter, Commander, I'll show you." She tucked curly blond strands of hair behind her ears and scrambled out from behind the desk. "This way."

Sirius couldn't help speculating on James' potential injuries. He had probably managed to break a couple of limbs with all the crazy flying he tended to engage in. When the nurse pulled aside the room flap, Sirius didn't see James splinted and immobilized. His friend seemed absolutely fine his lanky limbs folded onto a bed while he relaxed with his head leaned against the headboard. "You faker," Sirius said. "I thought nothing short of actual fractures was supposed to land James Potter in the infirmary? You're going soft in your old age."

James' eyes flew open and he sat forward, scooting to the edge of the bed. "Sirius, old dog, you know better than that. I'm here with Lily."

"She's okay?" Sirius dropped all pretence of joking and took a seat on the bed next to James. "Did something happen?"

"Hey, it's nothing bad. You can't mention this to her unless you really want me to end up in the infirmary, okay. You know I can't keep good news a secret from my best friend. Lily thinks it's bad luck to say anything in the first months." James met Sirius's worried gaze with a grin that managed to be hopeful, happy, and terrified all at once. "She thinks she's pregnant. And I think we're ready. Lily is going to retire from active duty and stay at home this time."

Never having been a father, Sirius didn't fool himself into thinking that he could understand what James was feeling, but he thought he might be able to guess. You couldn't watch a man lose two children, watch him grieve and mourn and die inside, without guessing at the panic this new development elicited. "You're ready. It's time. You and Lily are amazing parents. This little boy or girl is very lucky."

James didn't know why, but hearing Sirius say the things he'd been telling himself all day made them easier to accept. "Of course we're ready. Are you kidding?"

He'd come looking for James with his head full of Reapers and demons and strategy, but the work-talk could wait. "Look, I have to check on my men, and you have important baby-business to deal with," Sirius said. "Am I invited to dinner?"

James followed his friend as far as the hallway where they embraced. "Of course you're invited to dinner, but only if you think you can keep a secret."

"Who, me? Do you even need to ask?"

* * *

The leather-covered table clung to Lily's skin like glue everywhere the examination gown left exposed, but she didn't care. She just wanted the healer, Grady, to finish his examination and tell her that she was well, and her baby was well. She wanted to hear those magic words, your baby is fine. It seemed to be going on forever. He had drawn four different spell circles on her abdomen. What could he be checking? Was something wrong? What was wrong?

"Mrs. Potter, why don't you get dressed, and then we can talk?" Grady said.

It was all Lily could do not to scream. Why didn't he just say the magic words and tell her that everything was okay? Didn't he know that the waiting was torture? Lily rolled onto her side, the leather releasing her skin with an audible protest. She snatched her robes up and stepped behind the privacy curtain. Pulling her robes on hastily, Lily tried not to think the worst, but with every second she became more convinced that something was wrong with the baby. Their baby was in danger, and it wasn't even born.

Already worked into a near frenzy of speculation, Lily came out from behind the privacy curtain ready to hear almost anything. "What did you find? Something's wrong with the baby, isn't it?"

"It isn't like that," Grady said. "You aren't pregnant, Lily. Why don't you have a seat? We'll talk about it. Do you ever remember coming in contact with a chimera?"

* * *

Since Sirius had made his exit, James hadn't been able to sit still. Sirius helped him get his perspectives straight, helped him get in touch with the excitement that wouldn't let him wait quietly. Lily was pregnant again. They were going to be parents again. It was time.

When Lily finally appeared at the door, James didn't let her speak. He caught her in his arms, kissed her, squeezed her. Why hadn't he kissed her when she first told him? Why hadn't he been able to get excited and be happy? Why had he been so scared?

"James, stop," Lily whispered. "Just stop. There isn't a baby. I was wrong."

Taking a step back, James felt the excitement drain out of him leaving him empty and unable to respond for a long moment. "It's okay though. We know we're ready to try again now, right? I'm ready to try again now." Tears were leaking out of Lily's eyes and she was shaking her head. "Don't cry. Please? This isn't the end of the world. Please don't cry."

* * *

The Dog Pack, an elite special-operations group, made their camp several yards from the main rebel encampment. A handful of wizards and witches, who had been recruited by Allastor Moody himself lounged around outside in the sun, awaiting their next assignment, awaiting their leader. Sirius didn't bother trying to sneak up on his troops. He was too excited for James and Lily to bother testing the kiddies today. There weren't any salutes for Sirius when he entered camp. His soldiers were in their other forms to the last man. Heading up a pack of animagi was an art form, and Sirius had insisted early on that they spend at least a couple of hours a day together in animal form. That way Shelia-cougar was used to banking back her instincts and not chasing Derek-bunny when they were on an important mission.

Spotting the soldier he wanted, Sirius took out his wand and tapped the squirrel who was busy warming his fuzzy fingers in front of the fire. With a warm orange glow, the rodent became a short, bucktoothed private. "Edgar, I need your help," Sirius said. "Can you go to the commissary and get some cigars, the nice ones, and a couple of bottles of champagne. I have the requisitions you'll need."

"You got something to celebrate, Captain?" Edgar asked. "A lady we don't know about?"

"You really think I've been out picking up women?" Sirius asked. From the look of quiet expectation on Edgar's face, he did. "Well I haven't, yet. Your captain wouldn't take leave without giving his troops their leave. I want those goods in my tent, pronto. Now go, fetch."

Edgar scampered off, and the other soldiers began transforming back into their human forms.

"Did you say leave, Captain? I could use some liberty" Shelia said. She rose out of her cat crouch and into a sinuous stretch.

"Are we free for a few days? Tell me we're free for a few days," Derek begged.

"Freedom? Let me show the bunny a good time, Captain," Shelia said. "You give him liberty and he's going to try to visit his mummy." She pounced on the blond young man who five seconds earlier had been a rabbit.

"The liberty is yours, ladies and gentlemen. What you do with it isn't any of my business. Five days, and then we're back in training." Sirius left Derek being wrestled to submission by Shelia. The kid's animagus form was a rabbit, and he acted like one a little too much. He needed to get a more aggressive mindset. Shelia, wildcat girl, might be good for him. "Spread the word to your comrades in the woods before you head out guys, and don't be late getting back either."

* * *

The chill night air tasted crisp and clean to Sirius on his walk to James and Lily's tent. An unlit cigar in mouth and champagne under his arm, Sirius paused at their closed tent flap. The cigars and alcohol weren't really overkill. Sure, technically, James asked him to keep quiet about their baby news, but he hadn't said anything about not bringing presents. "Hello, anyone home?" Sirius called. "Hello?"

James' greeting wasn't quite what he'd expected. He took one look at his friend and snatched the cigar out of his mouth. "I thought you understood the meaning of secret," James hissed.

Watching his hand-rolled tube of prime tobacco disappear into James' pocket, Sirius felt a swell of indignation rise in his chest. "What? You didn't say I couldn't bring presents."

"I did say to keep quiet about what we discussed. Lily's in the bedroom resting, and I don't want to get her going again," James said. "Hide the cigars, but keep the champagne. I could use a drink." He set a couple of earthenware glasses on the kitchen table and took a seat. The room was dim, only a pair of candles lighting the place.

Quietly, Sirius popped the cork off the champagne and poured the two glasses full. "What happened? Is Lily okay? Is the baby okay?"

James took a long drink from the glass and grimaced. "That stuff is horrible."

"You going to talk to me, or are you going to critique the stupid champagne?" Sirius snapped

James swigged the rest of his glass down and refilled from the bottle. "Couple of years ago, we went down on the Aegean to get that totem for the Jericho project. You remember that?"

"What does that have to do with anything? That was two years ago." Sirius sipped at his own champagne, anxious to find out what had rained on his friends' parade, hopeful that it was a professional complication and nothing to do with their family.

"Could you just listen for five minutes? Just listen. It's an unbelievable story." James downed his second glass of champagne, determined to become inebriated as quickly as possible. "We were at the temple where the totem was supposed to be. Lily took a couple of the troops and they scouted the high ground, while I took the rest into the low ground. Me and my men found the totem, dealt with the banshees that were guarding it, and we got out unscathed. No problems. Lily and her guys found a chimera on their scout and they dealt with it. Lily got a little scratch. She field dressed it, didn't even need the infirmary when we got back. It was nothing, a scratch."

"Then today she tells me that she's three weeks late, that she's pregnant, and we head straight to the infirmary, but she wasn't pregnant, Sirius." James dumped the last of the champagne into his glass and stared at it. "That damn chimera left this tiny sliver of claw in her, in my Lily. It's been migrating inside her for years now, scaring her, poisoning her. The healer inactivated it today, but he couldn't undo all the damage."

"Is she going to be okay?" Sirius asked. His friend, James, could handle a lot of things. He'd had to handle some terrible things, but Sirius didn't know if his friend could face losing his wife, not after everything that had already passed. "James?"

"The healers think so. She can't have any more children though, and Lily is really not taking that well right now. She doesn't want me to help. She just sealed herself up in the bedroom, shut me out." James downed the last of the champagne and rose in one motion. "You know, I think there's some firewhiskey in the top cabinet. Would you like something a little stronger?"

Sirius didn't bother tossing incredulities at James. It was crazy, unbelievable, and unfair, but there it was. James and Lily Potter had the worst luck of any ten people. They didn't deserve this, but there wasn't anything he could do to fix it. Sirius rose and grabbed James by the arm, determined to help in some small way. Lily needed to be alone, and James needed to dull the pain until his wife needed him. "If we're getting fall-down drunk, we're not doing it in camp. Come on, before you're too far gone to fly."

* * *

Two cool, perfect charms, one scarlet and the other rose pink, rested on Lily's hand. She made the charms for her children. They were designed to help her find them if the kids were lost. Now those charms were all that remained of little Harry and Isobel. The fire that killed them had burned so hot that nothing of her babies was left behind to find or bury, but the charms she placed around their necks had survived. Lily hadn't wanted the charms buried. She kept them, wore them. It was almost like a piece of her babies survived in those charms, ghosts of children that should have been breathing, playing, seven and eleven year olds.

Was the rebellion really worth everything she'd paid for it? If she had just been willing to live quietly with the status quo, her children wouldn't have been in a camp alone with a carer who didn't have the sense to escape from a fire. Her unborn children wouldn't have been doomed by a random injury in the line of duty. If she could just have accepted her role as second tier witch and left her Muggle family behind like so many others managed, her babies might still be alive. James and his family weren't involved in the rebellion when she met him. They only got involved after her encouragement, her sermonizing and preaching. They never would have bucked the system if it hadn't been for her.

It was her fault that her children were lost, her fault that James would never be a father, her fault that there would be no grandchildren for James' parents to spoil.

Lily curled her hand around the charms she'd fashioned for her children and drifted into a fitful sleep. She dreamed about her babies as they could never be, dreamed about an eleven year old boy with his father's wild black hair and her own green eyes. She dreamed about a seven year old little girl with much straighter brown hair and serious brown eyes. Lily dreamed while two powerful charms glowed in her hand.


	3. Orientation

**Chapter 2 - Orientation**

**History of the World Volume IX Chapter 4 The Rule of Turpin – Equality of Inherent Potential**

_A fundamental truth of existence: all races, sexes, species, and religions are equal. The only true division can be made based on power, the inherent spring of magic which elevates some individuals over others. Division should begin at the earliest possible age. The powerful should unite with their own kind, growing in strength and wisdom..._

* * *

Toward the south side of Suffolk, a rambling old five-story house spilled over the edge of its hillside. The average passerby knew from looking that the house was a wizard's dwelling. It meandered its way upwards in defiance of logic, physics, and sensible Muggle architecture. The wizard family inside didn't realize that their house would give the average Muggle vertigo. Muggle houses rarely elevated beyond two stories, and those that did, well they were few and far between, so the family had little reference with which to compare. From the third floor of the house a young man with a head of bright red hair stared out, wishing he could be on a broom instead of stuck inside listening to his mother lecture him about school.

"Ronald, you need to listen to me. School can be a wonderful experience, but you have to be very careful." Molly folded another robe neatly and stowed it in her son's trunk. "Your brothers will look out for you as much as they can, but it all depends on how the first sorting goes. If you're Class II or III or IV, you'll probably never see your brothers, not that I think you're going to end up in Class IV or even Class II. You just have to be strong, and think strong on that first day. If you're afraid, it will hurt you by several points guaranteed."

"Mum, I know. You've told me a hundred times. I'm going to be fine, just like Fred and George were fine. If they could make Class I, I can manage it, no problem." Ron smiled with a façade of confidence that he didn't really feel. "Even if I ended up in Class IV I'd still be okay." His next argument, that Charlie made it through school without anyone watching his back never made it to his lips. Charlie was a taboo subject. His oldest brother vanished into the hills to be a revolutionary. He abandoned his family for a set of ideals Ron wasn't terribly clear on. Uttering the word Charlie was guaranteed to send his Mum into a fit of tears and terror and mother-hen protectiveness that could last a month or more. Fred and George would jinx him for the rest of his life if he set his mother off like that.

"I know you're a big boy, and you're just as tough as any of your brothers, but I can't help worrying. You're my youngest, my baby. Give your mother a kiss now." Molly barely got the last words out because of the tiny sobs bubbling out of her throat.

Ron surrendered to the wet, sloppy embrace his mother required before heading downstairs with his trunk, none the worse for wear. His brothers were already downstairs waiting with their father. Dad wasn't around that much because his job at the antiquities department kept him on the road most of the time, but he always found a way to be home the day his sons went off to school. Unlike his mum, Ron's dad didn't try to fill his son's head with advice for the sorting or survival at school. Arthur Weasley hugged Ron close and whispered into his ear, "I love you son. Be safe."

"Finally," George said. Leaning casually against his trunk, he grinned at his twin. "I didn't think our little brother was ever going to make it downstairs."

"Mother seems to have got him a little soggy. Not good for first impressions. Do we have a drying spell?" Fred asked.

"I have one, but it may dehydrate him like a Ronnie-raisin," George replied. "That could hurt his performance getting sorted."

"God forbid," Fred said.

"No picking on Ron before the sorting," Molly shouted on her way down the stairs. "No jinxes, hexes, or anything that is going to hurt his confidence. Try to be good brothers for at least a day, or Merlin help me, you will regret it."

"Of course Mother, we wouldn't do anything to hinder his sorting. If he's anything but Class I how do you think that will look for us?" Fred and George chimed together. "We have a family reputation to uphold."

"All right boys," Arthur said. He ushered his children toward the magic circle in the centre of the room. "One at a time, I'll send you through." Standing back, watching his sons head into the Unified School System, Arthur wished that it could have been different, that Molly had been willing to live off the grid to live outside Turpin's strictly defined society. It was an old fight between them, and Arthur knew better than to bring it up again. Molly was satisfied with Turpin, with the safety and the stability of the empire. His boys were going to be fine.

Ron headed onto the dully-glowing red runes and kept a hand on his trunk. "Goodbye, Mum, Dad. I'll see you at the break." Traveling by magic circle was like falling into a rabbit hole. Everything was dark and fast for a few moments, but then your feet were back under you and you were somewhere else hundreds of miles away. Ron made haste out of the circle, so that the next arrival didn't land on his head. His brothers had headed through first, and they were already lined up in the class rankings. He could see them across the way, and wished he could join them, but he was new, and there was a clear sign directing him to the right where a large conglomeration of students had already gathered.

None of the kids there had trunks with them, and Ron knew what that meant. They were either Muggle-born, or group home kids or even more likely a mixture of the two groups. Ron didn't have anything against kids from different social groups than his own. These kids might be starting out on the bottom, but they were moving up into society, becoming second tier witches and wizards. They still made him a little nervous, like anything or anyone unknown. He seemed to be the only first year with a trunk who'd arrived.

One of the boys, wearing the same institutional gray robes as everyone else, stepped forward. He had a pair of round wire-rimmed glasses and a mop of unruly black hair. He smiled at Ron and motioned him over. "We don't bite you know."

"Speak for yourself, Harry," one of the girls spat. "If he's that scared, maybe he should just keep his distance."

"I'm not scared," Ron growled. Squaring his shoulders, he headed for the boy who had invited him over. "I'm Ron Weasley."

"Nice to meet you, Ron. I'm Harry Green, and my courteous friend here is Hermione Granger." Harry pointed to himself and the girl who'd threatened to bite. She had a sullen wild look about her. Part of the wild look was the bushy brown hair, but her eyes didn't leave you with a warm, civilized feeling either. "I'm from Group Home Four and Hermione is a former Muggle. They moved her to the group home last year, and we've been fast friends since she attacked me that first day."

"Keep making jokes, Green. I'll show you what a real attack feels like," Hermione snapped. "Why are you being nice to this silver-spoon anyway? He comes trotting around in his fancy robes and big trunk of goodies like he's better than the rest of us. I don't like him. Make him go away."

Harry leaned closer to Ron, a sly grin on his face. "She really doesn't like anyone the first time she meets them, and she doesn't really bite, unless you're wrestling then she fights dirty, hair-pulling, eye-poking, the works. Where you from Ronnie? You live in London?"

Feeling a little overwhelmed by the rush of information coming at him from the odd pair of kids, his peers, Ron took a moment to answer. "Nah, my family lives in the country. We're really not that important as wizarding families go. We don't have lots of money or third tier connections or anything."

"I weep for you, silver-spoon," Hermione snapped. She turned away as though finished acknowledging Ron's existence.

"Here they come," Harry said. "You were just the first Ron." The other children of established wizarding families had begun to appear in the arrival circles. Where the group home children were uniformly grey, these other children arrived in a rainbow of colors, styles, and fabrics. Harry wondered what the textures of some of the shinier silks or furs would be like. The other children reminded him of birds, fanciful and untouchable. They were from a different world. "You might want to join them Ronnie. There's a line here that they aren't crossing. You don't want to be ostracized on your first day. We don't have a choice, but you do. It's not a big deal, Ron. You aren't going to hurt our feelings."

"Yeah, silver-spoon, go home," Hermione hissed over her shoulder.

True, if he hadn't been the first of the established wizard's children to arrive, he probably would have kept to his side of the sorting area, but now that he'd crossed he wasn't going to just cross back. "Could you call your girlfriend to heel," Ron snapped. "It isn't like I know any of them any better than I know you two. I live in the country, and my parents aren't big on social mingling."

The cynical smile Harry had been sporting softened and he snorted at Ron. "You are a brave soul. Maybe we'll end up in the same class? Wouldn't that be exciting?"

Ron wouldn't have particularly minded being sorted into a grouping with Harry, but he had a sneaking suspicion that that the wild-girl, Hermione, was headed straight for group IV, low-potential land.

An older woman, stiff and regal, came forward from one of the larger transportation circles. A squat silver stone had appeared with the woman, and she levitated it forward with her. "Children, please pay attention. When I call your name, come forward and place your right hand on the stone here. When the stone glows yellow you may return to your friends and wait until the process is complete." Not wasting any time, the woman squinted down her nose at the list in front of her.

"Abbot, Hannah."

A mousy young girl from the group-home children moved forward, the first student to be analyzed. She touched the stone hesitantly, and it sparkled a golden yellow almost immediately.

"Aster, Forest."

Harry stared at the other children coming forward. He watched them touch the stone, and tried to discern a pattern to the flashes of light that strobed afterwards. Some of them had to stand at the stone for several minutes before it flashed. Others barely had to touch it. Did quick flashes imply strength or weakness? What should he hope for when they reached, him?

"Granger, Hermione."

His friend was moving forward then. Her fingers scarcely brushed the surface of the stone before it flashed golden. Then and there, Harry decided to hope for a quick flash. At least then he would maybe end up in a grouping with his friend, someone to watch his back.

"Green, Harry."

Quick flash, Harry hoped silently. He brushed his hand against the stone, and he waited, and waited. Wasn't it going to flash? A strange panic started build inside him and Harry felt real fear. Maybe he was really just a Muggle, not even enough magic in him to light the stone. They were going to throw him out of the only home he'd ever known, his group home, and cast him down with the regular humans in the gutter. "Flash, please," Harry murmured. The stone finally obliged him, giving an enthusiastic gold burst.

More names were being called, but Harry didn't even care to look. Forget the patterns and what group it would mean for him. He was headed for a group, be it I or IV. He couldn't say what happened for next hundred or so names, but he heard the last name of the morning.

"Weasley, Ron."

And surprise of surprises, Ronald touched the rock and got a nice flash of light like the rest of them.

The older woman abandoned her list and approached the stone. "We're going to start with Class IV and move up. When the stone calls your name, proceed to the Class IV circle. Ready?" The woman tapped the stone with her wand. "Begin recitation."

After the wait he'd had to endure for his flash, Harry was expecting his name to be called in the first group, Class IV, the lowest powered wizards, but he wasn't obliged, not in Class IV or III or even in Class II. No one class was filled with exclusively group home or established-wizarding types. Harry could tell the established wizard-family kids were mortified to be called before Class I. Some of them even protested to the old woman, demanding a conference for their parents, but the lady ignored the disgruntled children. With a wave of her wand, she sent the Class IV, III, and II children on to their school. She turned to face the handful of students who remained.

"Those of you who remain have the distinction of being the twenty students of greatest magical potential based on the results of our divination stone. Of your peers, you are the elite. Whatever your role in life before today, you are equal to any wizard of the second tier from this day forward. With work, you can do anything, rise as far as even the third tier of society. Now, you will be ranked individually and paired into teams, 20 with 19, 18 with 17, so on and so forth."

Harry looked around himself more content and self-satisfied than he would have thought possible a few minutes earlier. He was a Class I wizard, and his friend, Hermione, was with him. Heck, the new guy, Ronnie, even made Class I. Harry didn't care what number he took in the top twenty if he could land a pairing with someone he liked or at least knew. There were seven kids from the group homes in class 1 and he knew them all. The odds were reasonable that he might land someone who wasn't a complete idiot as a partner.

"When I call your name and number, come forward to meet your partner:"

"20. Patrick Aster and 19. Terry Boot  
18. Charlie Dill and 17. Pierre Scott  
16. Valerie Gunther and 15. Seamus Finnigan  
14. Devon Teron and 13. Susan Bones  
12. Morag MacDougal and 11. Padma Patil  
10. Hannah Abbot and 9. Justin Fletchy  
8. Dean Thomas and 7. Lisa Turpin"

Looking around Harry couldn't contain his excitement, top 10 and he still had a shot at pairing up with Hermione or Ron. He hadn't thought a lot about all of the Law of Turpin lessons they had to study as kids, but Turpin was totally right, the powerful were drawn together. He had made friends with the two people best suited to his abilities. It couldn't be coincidence.

"6. Millicent Bulstrode and 5. Neville Longbottom  
4. Hermione Granger and..."

He was leaning forward ready to walk, but Harry's name wasn't called next.

"3. Ronald Weasley."

Looking around, there was only one other student remaining, a young man with slick white-blond hair. He met Harry's gaze with cool blue eyes that radiated cocky self-assurance. That kid wasn't shocked that he was either ranked one or two in the class. That's my partner, Harry thought. Don't be an ass, he wished silently.

"2. Draco Malfoy – 1. Harry Green."

Neither of them moved forward at first; Malfoy seemed to finally be nonplussed. No, you're not number one, Harry wanted to shout. A no-name, no-connections, group home nobody was number one. Hermione was grinning at him, and Harry moved forward with renewed confidence, practically glowing with the inherent potential he apparently possessed.

Harry wouldn't have thought anything could kill the emotional high he was reveling in, but the cool sneer of his partner Draco raised every hackle he possessed. Trying to be polite, despite his instincts, Harry offered the blond boy his hand. "Looks like we'll be working together."

Draco just stared at his hand as though it were contaminated and distasteful. "Class I should by all rights be reserved for those children whose families have actively participated in society for at least a generation. You Muggle-borns should have to serve society like the rest of us before you benefit from it. It's really a disgrace the number of your kind in my class this year. I wouldn't be surprised if some of you weren't reclassified after my father finds out what happened." Draco ran his eyes up and down Hermione for good measure. "A filthy shame."

Anger sprang to life in Harry's heart coursing down his arms and curling his fists into angry pistons capable of breaking pale thin aristocratic noses. Instead of yielding to his instincts he internalized his anger, letting it fuel his desire to succeed. Hermione wasn't nearly as composed. Harry was barely able to get himself between her and Draco before she could tackle him. "Hermione, remember what I said? Come on girl, if you break his nose they'll drop you a class. The idiot thought he could get my number one by default with a little taunting, but he's about to get your number four. Then I'd have to break your nose for being stupid, and they'd declassify us together."

"I don't think I'm going to like school if you can't stand up for yourself," Hermione growled. She stopped struggling to get at Draco, and settled on glaring at the rude snob. "He's trying to get a number one by default, eh? I can't believe that greasy pale toad was classed higher that me."

Draco turned to Ron as though he'd found a kindred spirit. "I feel sorry for you being paired with that savage. If we work together, I'm sure these two will be in Class II by spring term, and we'll be the number one and two of this class. My father's the Sheriff of this entire district, and with his help, it'll be no problem."

Flushing an embarrassed crimson that almost blended perfectly with his hair, Ron sputtered for a moment, partly because he had been consoling himself over his pairing with the savage. Hermione had made no bones about how much she disliked him, and she was a little coarse from his brief interchange with her. But he most certainly wasn't going to plot anyone's drop in rank. That was crazy, malicious, and bigoted. "I'll take my partner, thanks," Ron managed after a moment. "If you don't watch it, you'll be the one who gets dropped to Class II. They don't put up with nonsense at the Class I school. Everyone in this class is equal now, and your important Sheriff-Daddy won't be able to pull any strings out there."

"We'll see about that, I suppose," Draco said.

The older woman returned and shuffled them into a transportation circle, effectively ending their confrontation for the moment. Once through the circle the pairs of two were sent together to one of ten stations to acquire their school supplies. Ron gaped at the bizarre stalls that filled the Quidditch-pitch-sized room. The place looked more like a dungeon than a school with its mildew covered stone walls and torch-light.

He might have gaped longer, but Ron found himself jogging to keep up with Hermione. Was she going to be angry or happy? He did stand up for her, sort of. Sure he was wizard-raised, and she was a Muggle-born, but they could coexist and work together. They had to. Hermione slipped into the girl's section of the robe-fitting area, and Ron put his speculation on her mood to rest for a few moments, during which approximately three dozen measuring tapes scaled every inch of him. In less time than Ron spent brushing his teeth in the morning, a harried middle-aged witch presented him with a set of pale mauve robes. "I guess I should change, yes?"

Pausing in the hall that separated the girl's and boy's changing area, Hermione stared through the gauzy material that served as a door. Ron, her new partner, silver-spoon himself, was changing. It wasn't polite, watching him like she was, but Hermione didn't exactly pride herself on her manners. She had to find a way to be civil to Ron, to work with him, and not hate him. He didn't personally persecute her family, and he'd even been sort of decent so far. Harry had lectured her about being calm and trying to fit in for days, but Harry didn't know what it was like out there for Muggles. He had spent most of his life in the cushy group home, going to school and eating three square meals a day. If she felt underprivileged and resentful with a kid from Harry's background, how was she ever supposed to relate to Ronald Weasley, pampered wizard prince? Why couldn't the divination stone have paired her with Harry or someone else less distasteful?

"Come on, keep moving," one of the seamstresses said. She pushed Hermione forward through the gauze curtain where Ron was lacing the top of his shirt. "Our next students are here. Go to books down the hall."

Determined to be polite and make some sort of inroad with Hermione, Ron smiled, a forced expression. "You look nice," he offered. Purple wasn't really her colour, but the robes suited her much better than the poorly-fitted gray thing she'd been wearing earlier.

"Really? You look like a deflated sickly grape," Hermione replied. "I think I saw the books area this way."

"Girl knows how to take a compliment," Ron muttered under his breath.

Just stepping out of the Potions supply room, Harry didn't follow his partner straight for the cauldron station. Instead he craned his neck around, trying to maybe spot Hermione or Valerie, or someone else he knew, but everyone seemed to be busy at one station or another. With a sigh, Harry joined his recalcitrant number two getting his cauldron. The wizard in charge barely glanced at the two of them before tossing the heavy pewter pots at their midriffs. After grunting at the impact, Draco headed out without a word. The silent treatment wasn't bothering Harry. He only wished it would last.

"Where is the wand section?" Harry muttered. Hoisting his goods up into his arms for a more stable grip, he craned his neck around looking for sign with something pointy-looking on it.

"This way," Draco snapped. "Can't you read?"

"Yeah, I can read," Harry grumbled. "And apparently I have all the potential I'll need to be a significantly better wizard than you."

Walking behind him, Harry could see Draco's neck turn red, and he grinned. Draco might hate him and taunt him, but Harry had the upper hand because he had exactly what Draco wanted.

The wand supply room was much darker than the other stations they'd visited. A thousand small intricately labeled drawers lined the walls, and Harry's heart leapt at the thought of the wonders hiding behind those drawers. A stooped old woman stood behind the counter her gray frazzled hair surrounding her deeply wrinkled face in its crazy bushiness. "Touch the stone boys, one at a time."

It was another divination stone, much smaller than the one that segregated them into classes but very much the same: grey and squat and opaque. Harry came forward and brushed his fingers over the stone. He liked this kind of magic. Divination stones had been good to him so far.

"Annoying," the old woman grumbled. She tottered over to a wall of drawers, summoned a ladder, and made her slow ascent to the highest row. Squinting at the labels, she selected a drawer and removed a box. Harry could hardly stand waiting for the lady to make her way back with his wand. He accepted the box with shaking hands. The box opened with a delicate snap like a fine jewellry box, and Harry stared at the polished black wood.

"It's mahogany with a dragon heartstring core. Strong wand with a good bit of kick," the woman asserted. "Now you blondie, touch the stone."

"I already have a top-of-the-line wand," Draco said. He spared Harry and his school-issue wand a sneer. "I plan to use it, thanks."

Draco breezed out of the wand room without a backwards glance. It hadn't occurred to Harry that some students wouldn't use the school issue supplies that the empire provided. In his reading, every resource asserted that school was a level playing field that no one was given an advantage based on their heritage or family position. Ideals were never as perfect in practice as on paper.

"Little snob thinks his club of a useless twig is better than one of my wands?" the woman growled. "Idiot."

Harry smiled at the crone. "Draco's wrong is he? I'll do my best to prove you right."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

You may notice a few things and wonder why I changed them. Number one, Molly and Arthur Weasley only had four children, Charlie, Fred, George, and Ron. All I can say is that Arthur spent a whole lot more time at work and less time having fun. I excluded Ginny for a specific plot reason.


	4. I Spy With My Little Eye

**Chapter 3 - I Spy, With My Little Eye**

**History of the World Volume V Chapter 19 The Rule of Turpin – Peace Under the Tiers of Society**

_Even the lowest of creatures from the bottom tier of society can be ruled peacefully. All humans understand fear, and with fear comes tranquility. Sometimes the higher a human rises in society, the healthy instinct for fear is overcome, oftentimes by misguided idealism or pride. To maintain efficient rule, fear must be regularly reestablished…_

* * *

A dark figure waited quietly in the antechamber to the office of a second tier governor. He seemed out of place in the well-lit hallway, with his black robes and greasy hair. His almost vampire-sallow skin framed a pair of piercing black eyes. This wizard seemed calm and unconcerned with the prospect of meeting a second tier governor. His blasé attitude would have been more shocking except for the silver armband circling his bicep over his robes. That band separated him from even the highest second tier governor. It identified him as a third tier elect, a potential immortal.

"Severus, come in," Albus called.

Rising smoothly, Snape strode forward into the equally brightly lit office and sealed the thick wooden door behind him. The game that brought him here was more dangerous than dragon herding, more foolish than centaur trapping, more moronic than a Muggle. How had he ever become involved in the rebellion? He was one step from initiation to the third tier, and he was a spy, the single most highly placed spy the rebellion had managed. Mingling with Turpin's immortals, his Occlumency had been put to the test, and so far he had passed, but the situation couldn't continue. It wouldn't continue. Snape knew that if he didn't remove himself from the inner sanctum soon, he wasn't going to get many more chances.

Dumbeldore stood there loose and quiet and expectant. He could stare at you over his half-moon spectacles with almost as much penetration as one of the immortals Snape had to block out everyday. Anger flared in Severus at having to face that intrusive stare even here. It was Dumbeldore's fault that he was stuck in the untenable position of third tier spy. If he didn't owe the idealist fool his life, he would have washed his hands of the entire mess years ago. Those twinkling old-man eyes knew what they were owed, and they knew that he couldn't betray them. "Still enjoying your position over the school system, Albus? You'll be pleased to know that the third tier educators still think you're a slightly-senile apolitical old coot."

"I always said a little eccentricity goes a long way. Is your position still secure? Your Occlumency is holding up?" Albus didn't offer Snape a comfortable chair or try companionable conversation. His spy's visits were rare and brief, and it was important to get down to business. "Tell me everything you can."

Ignoring the question about his safety, Severus moved on to his report. They both knew how dangerous his position was, and they both knew that if his Occlumency had slipped they wouldn't be having a conversation, at least not in the living world. "I have news," Severus said. "They're moving me to a new department, special dispensation under a witch named Oscasia, but before I left the education council I caught wind of an old internal directive. The rebellion has moles throughout the regime. Well the regime has a few moles of its own in your rebellion. I don't have all the details, and the details I have don't make good sense. But the regime has been smuggling a commodity out of the rebellion periodically for decades, or longer." Snape met Dumbeldore's eyes and allowed him passage into the antechamber of his mind to complete his report in the most secure manner possible._ "They seem to be targeting certain children, stealing them quietly. I can't tell you why, or even be sure that this information is accurate, but I have no reason to doubt the source."_

With a flash of black robes fanning out, Severus Disapparated out of Dumbeldore's office, his report complete. Albus stared after his spy for a long moment, rolling the new information over in his mind a couple of times, twisting it around looking at it from every angle that made sense and a few that didn't. Turpin's people were quietly stealing children from the rebellion? If you set aside the improbability of a quiet kidnapping, there was still no obvious reason to steal a few children here and there. There had to be more details, but Albus didn't really have the manpower to start a taskforce over a bit of unsubstantiated information that was so vague it could mean a dozen things. At the same time he couldn't ignore ominous warnings about kidnappings.

With a sigh, Albus decided to do the best he could with the information he had. He took up an ostrich feather quill which was nearly as long as his arm and dipped it into a small ink well filled with shimmering golden ink. He scratched a brief note onto a scroll of parchment.  
_  
Remus,_

_I have need of you._

_A._

As soon as the words were written, they vanished. Another parchment, potentially a world away would bear his message and bring Remus Lupin to his door. Lupin was a man apart, a werewolf, a loner, and an unusually trustworthy mercenary. He wasn't part of the rebellion except for those times when Albus employed him.

Lupin's loyalty to the rebellion wasn't hard to rationalize when you considered the current climate about lycanthropy. Turpin's society did not tolerate the disease, treating it as an infection to be eradicated through any means necessary. Facing execution for a medical condition, a secret society of the afflicted came into being, a werewolf society. All those suffering from the disease were offered sanctuary, and once safe, few dared mingle with the outside world for fear of Turpin and his guard. Lupin was an exception to that fundamental rule, daring to interact with the uninfected, daring to walk alongside Muggles and wizards, and perhaps most foolhardy of all, daring to help the rebellion when compensation was offered.

The fireplace flared a bright green where no fire had existed, and the young werewolf, Remus, appeared only slightly dusty for his trouble. He brushed at the simply woven brown set of Muggle clothes he was sporting and bowed his head slightly to Albus. "Governor, you called."

Albus smiled warmly and tilted his head a fraction of a degree, returning the gesture of respect. "It's good to see you, Remus, prompt as always. Are you by any chance available for hire?"

Not waiting for an invitation, Remus took a seat across from the desk. "As it turns out, I am not entangled at the moment. What do you have for me?"

"I have a bone for you, my friend. There isn't much meat, but the bit that's there is serious business. This could take some time to figure out," Albus said.

"If you have the gold, I have the time," Remus replied. "Let's see this serious business."

* * *

Their first meal at school wasn't very exciting. By the time the first year students had gathered their supplies and made their way to the dormitories, the older students had long since eaten and retired. Simple meals of bread, cheese, and salted meats waited for the children in their bedrooms. Harry surveyed his room, a dormitory with twelve simple but elegant sleigh beds, all draped in the subdued purple of the first years. Those boys who had trunks found their luggage waiting and those who didn't carried their school supplies to an empty bed. Draco headed to the back of the room and claimed the handsome black leather trunk that matched the robes he had been wearing prior to their fitting.

Harry purposefully headed for the opposite corner of the room. They couldn't expect them to bunk as partners when half the teams were split up with girls in the opposite room. The trunk at the foot of the bed seemed too small to hold all the things they'd been given, but Harry found the space inside ample more like a walk in wardrobe of space, complete with shelves for books and ingredients. There was even a pole with hangars for his extra robes. Harry looked up from stowing his gear to find Ron unpacking his significantly heavier burden at the bed next to his. "Need a hand?" Harry offered. "How much stuff did you bring anyway?"

Ron rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Don't worry about it. My mum packed it all very neatly. She means well, but she packs like she might never see me again. If you need an extra bathrobe or couple dozen extra quills, come see me."

Picking at the tray of dinner food, Harry selected a tasty-looking bit of salted pork and chewed it thoughtfully. "Tomorrow should be pretty exciting. Do you think we'll see any of the upper classmen or the lower classed kids? I have a couple of good friends in Class III and II and IV even."

"Nah," Ron said. "We don't really see those guys in the lower classes but we will interact with the older Class I students. I have two brothers here right now. They're the number three and four of their class, identical twins, Fred and George."

"Wow, that's lucky. Is the number four bitter?" Harry asked with a chuckle.

"Don't laugh, but they're technically both number three. The divination stone said, and I quote, Fred and George Weasley, not Fred then George or George then Fred. They aren't like twins who don't like each other and want to show how they're actually very different people. They're really cool about it all." Ron grimaced, shoving a large pile of towels haphazardly into his bedside trunk. "That's good enough for tonight." He grabbed a hunk of bread and threw himself across his bed.

"That would have to be cool, having a twin. I just have a little sister. She's a complete baby, but I'll miss her I suppose. Give me time to forget how much she annoys me," Harry said. He crawled onto his bed and cuddled down onto his pillow. "We should probably sleep, right?"

"It might make classes easier tomorrow, but I doubt we'll manage it," Ron said. A timed spell kicked in and the lights began to dim. "So, were your parents Muggles like Hermione's?"

Blinking into the dimmed room, Ron realized that Harry had already slipped into sleep. He must have been really tired. Ron stifled a yawn and considered changing into his pajamas, but he was asleep before he could muster the initiative to rise off the soft coverlet.

* * *

Outside the dormitories Headmistress McGonagal tucked her wand away. It was a tradition older than her, enchanting the first year students to sleep on their first night at school. She remembered the unnatural night of slumber from her school days. It wasn't a restful sleep. She'd dreamt of being smothered by her blanket all night. Funny how little things could stick in your mind for so many years. If it were up to her, she would have dropped the high-handed spell casting, but as Albus was always reminding her, you didn't buck traditions under this regime. The more paranoid of the emperor's watchdogs considered an attack on tradition a sure sign of a seditious mind. Rebels couldn't afford to arouse suspicion over superfluous whims.

Sighing deeply, Minerva made her way up the stairs to her rooms. For so many years now, she'd worked in this school, first as a teacher and then as the headmistress when Albus was called up to be the central director. Her second secret job was always that of a recruiter for the rebellion. She'd been sending bright idealistic children to their deaths on the fringe of society for decades now. God she was tired. It wasn't only her old knees that ached during her evening climb to the headmistress's tower. A dull pain pounded in her head, radiating from her heart.

Rebellion was a game for children. Children valued their ideals enough to sacrifice their lives, to give up everything. Old women knew better. Minerva joined the rebellion as a girl, a young teacher working alongside a dashing older man. Albus recruited her himself, and maybe she'd been a little star-struck back then. His blue eyes disarmed her then. They still did. If it weren't for that man's eyes, she'd have withdrawn quietly from the rebellion years ago. Instead she kept sending him children, sacrificed to her inability to tell that man no.

Sliding through her bedroom door, Minerva frowned dispassionately. Who was she kidding? It wasn't like she twisted anyone's arms. She just listened to the children and offered those who were simpatico a connection to the fringe they were looking for. If they didn't find that fringe through her, they'd find it eventually. At least she made the transition a safe one for them. Standing alone, staring at the intricate tapestries on her wall, Minerva blinked back the tears in her eyes. It wasn't like they all died out there.

* * *

Honey-bread, waffles, sausage, eggs, toast, muffins...breakfast was slightly more bountiful than dinner had been. Hermione walked along the buffet line feeling assaulted by smells and foods that she'd never tried. At least this was a pleasant assault. She'd said Harry had it cushy with his three meals a day, but she hadn't really understood what cushy was until facing this feast. The banquet room was only partially full, early risers of various ages filling in the benches along rows of long polished tables. There were nine tables out there, one for every age group plus one for the teachers set aside and above the rest.

Hermione and the other seven girls in their class rose early, beating the boys to breakfast. She had tagged along in their whispering preening wake without actually speaking. Hermione knew she had nothing in common with the gaggle of talking laughing witches who hadn't spent the first decade of their lives in a hovel on a hill. Yet she needed to find a way to fit in and function. She was the highest placed girl in her glass for goodness sake. She should be in the middle of those girls, leading them. Snatching up a couple of unfamiliar foods, she turned to survey the other girls from her class who were already seated. At the head of the table one of the wizard-born girls was practically holding court. She wore the purple robes they'd been issued with style, somehow owning the dismal colour. Lisa Turpin had shiny black hair, clear pale skin, and the coldest black eyes Hermione had ever seen on another child.

Who was she kidding? The divination stone might think she had potential but those girls would chew her up and spit her out. Her decision to charge into that wolf pack shriveled and died before she took a single step.

"Hermione, there you are. I didn't want to head to breakfast without you, but I wasn't sure if you'd left yet," Harry said. No longer feeling quite so alone and beleaguered, Hermione could almost have hugged that boy. Harry with his familiar mussed hair and wire-rimmed glasses grabbed a plate and started shoveling breakfast foods onto it haphazardly. "So have you looked at your schedule for today yet?"

"Of course I've looked at it," Hermione snapped, careful not to show her relief at his arrival. "I assumed we'd all be going to the same classes anyway."

Now that Harry had his food, he joined Hermione watching the other girls in their class. He restrained himself from asking if Hermione had made any friends yet. He had some idea about how nervous other witches and wizards made her. "Come on, let's sit next to Valerie. She's okay."

Hermione recognized the horsy girl Harry was headed for from her brief stay at the group home. As for whether Valerie was really okay, she wasn't so sure. Harry thought just about everybody was worth knowing. It made his endorsement a little less valuable in Hermione's opinion. She had barely made it into her seat, when Harry shoved a folded piece of parchment under her nose. "Mine and Draco's schedule."

Unfolding the parchment, Hermione scanned the list. "It's different than mine." She fished around in her robes until she found her schedule and placed the papers next to one another.

"Yeah, I know. I already had a look at Ron's copy," Harry said. "We'll have a couple of classes together anyway."

Frustrated that she wouldn't have her one real friend in most of her classes, Hermione thrust Harry's schedule back at him. "It's stupid. Why bother splitting twenty kids up? They could just shuffle us around as a group and save their breath," Hermione said. "What kind of class size are we talking anyway? Four kids? Six?"

Ron, her esteemed partner, chose that moment to slide into the seat across from her. "Usually four according to my brothers. It means you can't disappear into the background. They ask everyone lots of questions everyday, and there's loads of teacher student interaction."

"Yeah, loads of student teacher interaction," two older boys chimed.

Hermione stared at the identical pair of gangly redheads suddenly seated at their table. They were wearing a deep green colour, upper-classman's robes. These had to be some of the older brothers Ron had spoken of. That shade of red hair couldn't possibly exist in two families.

"Congratulations, Ron," one of the boys said.

"Going to introduce us to your friends?" the other asked.

"Fred, George, this is Harry Green, and Hermione Granger, my partner. Harry and Hermione, these are my brothers, Fred and George."

"Ron speaks highly of you both," Harry said. He smiled at the twins and started shoveling down his breakfast.

"Let's see it," Fred said.

"Your schedule," George clarified.

"We came by to help you out," the twins said simultaneously.

Taking the crumpled paper Ron offered, the brothers pored over the schedule. "I wouldn't do first year again on a bet," George muttered. "Look at that day one. History with Fudge, Ecology with Wesson..."

"And Spell-Crafting with Dover," Fred said. "Listen up little brother and we'll tell you everything you need to know. Professor Cornelius Fudge loves to hear himself talk. He'll assign you enough reading to keep you up half the night."

"Every night. But take notes and that's what he tests from," George said. "Professor Vera Wesson is teaching ecology and magic but she really prefers the plants to the animals and the hard questions are all herbology."

"Professor Elspeth Dover is what, three hundred years old?" Fred asked.

"At least," George said. "She's tough though and immune to charm, but she's usually reasonable." A pack of older students passed by the table and the twins hailed them. "That should get you through the day, little brother."

Hermione watched the twins retreat to their age group's table, thankful for the first time to know Ron. It felt good to have some idea of what to expect. Ron was smiling at her as though he could read her mind. Hermione's eyes narrowed and she rose quickly. "All that helpful information and they didn't bother to tell us where any of these classes are," Hermione said. "I'm leaving now and looking for our first class."

Frowning, Ron chugged his glass of milk and shoved a last piece of toast in his mouth. He had to hurry to keep up with his partner. "Hermione, wait."

Watching his friends leave, Harry lingered over his own breakfast and waited for his partner's arrival. With school there were things you could control and things you had to live with. He couldn't influence divination stones or choose his schedule. Draco Malfoy most definitely hadn't been his choice of partners, but he wasn't planning to go anywhere, nor was he going to try to get Draco dropped to Class II, which meant they were stuck with each other. Harry spotted Draco's slick blond head in the breakfast line and sighed. It was going to be a long year.

"Okay Green," Draco said. He took the seat Ron had just vacated and stared resolutely across the table. "I don't particularly like you."

"Really? And I was so warming to you," Harry said. He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Unfortunately, we have to work together today. If you're late, they'll hold it against me too. If you screw up, I suffer the same homework penalties. The only things we don't share are test scores. This is me telling you to not screw up, unless you're going to do it royally and get yourself declassified."

Chuckling, Harry leaned forward, closer to Draco. How ugly could this relationship get in less than a week? "You're really something else. I'm not going to screw you up, if I can help it. This school isn't a joke to me. I want to do well here too. I've been studying in preparation for this place for as long as I can remember. Does it have to be a battle between us? Can't we work together in class?"

"Maybe," Draco said. "We'll see."

* * *

Four students sat on silk pillows in a half circle. The oval classroom they inhabited was bright and airy. A ceiling-height window arched every two feet offering a clear view of the sky and clouds outside. The instructor, a tall man with thick black hair and striking brown eyes stood in front of his class silently. His black robes were unadorned except for one decoration. All of his students had noticed the golden armband on his upper left arm. This was a third tier wizard.

"Good morning, class. We will be studying the art of magic. Your schedule says Dark Arts, but you need to understand that it isn't an evil thing we study here. Magic isn't black and white. It is gray. Some spells cost more of your soul than others, and we call those expensive spells dark. Even the most innocuous spell may be used for evil, and even the darkest spell can be used for good." The instructor took out his wand and began to pace gracefully, cat-like, in front of his students. "Harry Green, name a dark spell."

Transfixed by his instructor, Harry took a moment to answer. "Avada Kedavra."

"Excellent, an expensive spell. Now Seamus Finnigan, name a light spell," the instructor said.

"Ah, Wingardium Leviosa?" Seamus said.

"Another good answer, but have you ever thought how evil can be good and good evil? If I were to cast Avada Kedavra on a rampaging rogue wizard, would I be the force of darkness? If I were to levitate a stone over an innocent infant and allow it to crush that child, did I cast a light spell?"

"Wizards and witches are evil or good. Spells are just tools. My name is Tom Riddle. It is my job to teach you the expensive spells known as dark magic and how to defend yourself from them. Now take up your wands."

"Class pairs stand and face each other." Professor Riddle paused between the two groups. "Can anyone tell me what the spell Tripudio will do? Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco frowned and tried to think of an answer. Of course Green and Finnigan would get easy questions, and he'd get the obscure spell question.

"If you don't know, just say so. You don't have to stare at me for three minutes," Professor Riddle said. "This is the first day. My expectations go up from here. Don't bother smiling. This means you have to get the answer the hard way. I want you to take turns casting Tripudio at each other until someone figures it out. Watch my wand." Professor Riddle demonstrated a sharp flick of his wand. "Tripudio. Ready? Begin."

* * *

Covered from head to foot in foul-smelling dragon dung Hermione gripped her Spell-Crafting text and refused to look at her similarly dung-encrusted partner. It was all Ron's fault for distracting her when they were supposed to be fertilizing the Golden Dinksaps. She got a dusting in its eyes, and the creature came up out of the ground showering them in crap. Now they had to finish the day, their first day, in complete filth. Her knuckles began to ache she was gripping her book so hard.

"I'm sorry," Ron said for the hundredth time. Hermione still didn't look at him or respond to his apology. Honestly, it was at least as much her fault as his. Would she accept an apology or offer one? No. She had one gear, disgruntled. Well he wasn't apologizing anymore. She wasn't the only one wearing dragon dung to the last class of the day. "You are impossible," he muttered under his breath.

"Wow, what a smell," Harry said. "I take it you guys had a good lesson." He slid into the seat next to Ron and brushed delicately at his friend's dirty shoulder. "What happened?"

"An accident in ecology," Ron replied. "How did your morning classes go? I don't see your partner."

Harry laughed and slid lower in his seat. "Professor Riddle is great. He's third tier you know, and his class was really interesting. Dearest Draco had to stay after class to get the Tripudio curse reversed. I was the first to cast it correctly."

"Really? Congratulations, I guess. What's the Tripudio curse?" Ron asked. Whatever it was, Draco probably deserved it.

"The curse of the dancing feet," Harry whispered. "Draco had rhythm. Draco was feeling the music."

Hermione abandoned her sulk and spun toward the boys. "Was it really embarrassing? I wish I could have seen that."

"Now she talks," Ron said. "Will I have to curse Draco every time something goes wrong to get you to stop pouting?"

"I wasn't pouting," Hermione snapped.

"Right, you just went deaf," Ron said.

While his two friends traded barbs, Harry doodled on his parchment and daydreamed about his amazing first class. Dark Arts was the exciting subject he had heard it would be, and Professor Riddle was the epitome of the wizard Harry wanted to be. Calm, handsome, charismatic, powerful...Harry could see himself in that role, wearing that armband, teaching that class.

"She was pouting. Tell her Harry," Ron said. "Back me up man," he added more quietly.

"Hermione doesn't pout. She wages silent psychological warfare, my friend," Harry said diplomatically.

* * *

"I will not be made a fool of," Draco gasped. Panting and out of breath from all the dancing he had just done, he stared at Professor Riddle. Sparks were dancing in his blue eyes. "Do you know who my father is?"

Professor Riddle shrugged disinterestedly. "As far as I know the only student in your class with a parent on the third tier is Lisa Turpin. Why would I bother to know any of your other parents?"

"My father is the sheriff of this whole district," Draco said. "Lucius Malfoy, he's practically third tier."

"Your father is a second tier nothing, and the sooner you realize that, the easier your life is going to be," Riddle said. "You should run along to your next class, before you're late."

"My father..."

"Is nothing!" This time Riddle's voice dropped and his eyes literally shifted red for an instant. "Go."

* * *

Spell Crafting was not the fun and games Dark Arts had been. Theory, logic, languages, the power in words, the power of intent, Harry's head was aching from the massive amount of knowledge Professor Dover threw out in that first class. In the prepatory classes at the group home they'd taught rudimentary Latin, Arabic, Ancient Egyptian, and Greek. No one had come out and said they'd need the languages, but it made Professor Dover slightly easier to understand. Harry just wished he'd studied those subjects a little harder.

"That should be enough for our first class," Professor Dover said. Her voice was surprisingly strong and clear coming out of the stooped white-haired woman. She seemed so frail that an errant breeze might blow her over. "Mr. Green, could you please tell me where your partner Mr. Malfoy is?"

Harry glanced to his right and the empty seat there. "I haven't seen him since our morning class. He needed to stay behind for a few minutes."

"Well, perhaps you should stay with him if he requires an escort to make it to class. I'll expect a twenty inch essay on the use of old or dying languages as words of power, from both of you, in addition to your regular assignment," Professor Dover said. "If he misses another of my classes, there will be worse than a homework penalty awaiting the both of you."

On their way out of class Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder and winced. "Tough luck. It's really too bad that you have to take the extra work with him."

"Yeah," Harry muttered. Truthfully, he was a little worried about his partner. Sure Draco had acted like a complete idiot from day one, but it was only day two. Was it fair to judge him, classify him, and give up hope that there might be a halfway decent human being under the posturing surface? He seemed very serious about doing well at school. Missing his first Spell Crafting lesson was completely out of character.

Back at the dormitories, Harry threw his books onto his bed. There was no sign of Draco there, which only meant that he'd probably gone to dinner early, or maybe he was somewhere studying? Ron had started chattering about Quidditch sometime on the walk back and he was beginning to pick up steam. "And if the Western European Magnate team doesn't beat the South Americans this year we won't continue to the match with Africa the year after. We'll go into the loser's bracket. Harry, are you listening?"

"I'm listening. We need to win this year's intercontinental match because we lost to the Australians last year. It doesn't really matter if we win though. We're still screwed if those freaks from Antarctica don't lose soon." Harry checked to make sure he had his wand and stepped toward the exit. "Are you going to dinner? I'm starved."

"The freaks from Antarctica are not going to be world champions! Don't even suggest it. We can't be friends if you're going to be a pessimist about the Westies chances," Ron said. "I mean really."

"There's nothing wrong with Quidditch or the Westies," Harry replied. "I've just got something on my mind." The great hall was filled more completely than Harry had ever seen it, students and teachers occupying the empty places making a sea of multicoloured robes. Harry scanned the crowd looking for a slick blond head over a purple robe, but Draco wasn't there to be found. "Ron, I'll catch up with you at dinner, okay? I need to check on...something." Harry headed back into the hall and jogged to the west tower where their Dark Arts class met. It was the last place he'd seen Draco, and maybe Professor Riddle would still be there. Maybe he could tell Harry where his partner had disappeared to?

Clomping up the last steps, Harry knocked at the door and waited. "Professor Riddle?" When no one answered, he pushed tentatively at the heavy oak door, which cracked open without protest. "Is anyone here?" Harry peeked his head around the door. The classroom was very different without sunlight streaming through the many arched windows. The small amount of light offered by the crescent moon barely cut into the shadows. The room was obviously deserted. With a sigh Harry started to leave, but he caught a bit of motion out of the corner of his eye. "Who's there?" Harry pushed the door all the way open, his heart suddenly thudding faster. He brandished his wand, and his hand hardly shook.

"Go away, Green."

Rather than a dark beast left over from upper classman lessons like Harry had been imagining, that voice sounded like Draco. "Malfoy? What are you doing up here in the dark?"

"Why am I here? Why are you here, Green? I just want to be alone," Draco said. "Why don't you go to dinner and make nice with your little friends."

There was a tired defeated inflection to his voice that Harry hadn't expected. Was this about class and the dancing curse? It was just a little dash of embarrassment. Things like that were bound to happen while they learned magic. "Well I'm not leaving you alone, partner. We're in this together and you let me down today. We have an essay as long as my leg due next week because you couldn't be bothered to show up for Spell Casting."

"It doesn't even matter to me," Draco hissed. He stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight. There was a clean slice cut into the smooth curve of his right jaw. Where blood had fallen and dried his purple robe was stained black. "It's all over."

"You need a healer. What happened?" Harry asked. He walked forward a few steps, but Draco gestured sharply for him to stop.

"It's healed already. I'm marked. I pissed Riddle off and he VETOED me," Draco shouted.

Harry didn't ask Draco what he meant. He'd heard that third tier wizards and witches could veto anyone on the second tier so that they weren't eligible to ever rise to the third tier. "But you're just a kid," Harry whispered. "Can he do that?"

"Obviously he can and did," Draco said. "My father's going to kill me. Number two in the class and no chance of ever rising."

Never having had a father or mother with expectations to live up to, Harry couldn't completely understand Draco's dilemma. Heck, he'd imagined what it would be like to have a father, demanding or supportive, kind or cruel. Draco's father might be of the demanding variety, but Harry had a hard time believing he would really kill his son over a little disappointment. "Forget it," Harry said. "It's over. Now you can just enjoy this experience. Just go to school without all the stress of trying to be better than everyone else."

"You think everything is so easy, cut and dry, black and white," Draco said. "I just lost my only dream, my lifelong goal."

"Aren't we a bit young to have lifelong goals? There's more to life than the third tier," Harry said. "There's Quidditch and Quidditch."

Draco snorted and shook his head at Harry. "You think the new meaning in my life is going to be Quidditch?"

"It seems to get Ron through the day," Harry said. "Come on to dinner. You have to be starving. I'm starving, and I bothered to grab a bite at lunch."

Draco nodded slowly. He let Harry lead him away, trying to steel himself against the hundreds of kids who were going to see the veto carved into his cheek marking him forever as inferior. Well they could all gawk, they could think what they wanted, but he wasn't inferior. He wasn't number two material and he didn't deserve to be exiled from tier three. Harry was a condescending idiot, coming around and pretending to care. Still when he pushed through the doors to the Great Hall, Draco was glad to have someone beside him even if it wasn't a friend.


	5. Losing the Battle

**Chapter 4 - Losing the Battle**

**History of the World Volume I Chapter 1 The Maturation of Turpin – The Roman Years**

_Many amateur historians do not realize that Emperor Turpin was actually the bastard son of a Roman general. His mother was his first instructor in the art of magic. He was an apt pupil. Delia, a witch born in the murky waters of the Nile taught him the eastern magics, while his father, Eldon son of Faston, taught him war and government. By combining the best of his father's world with his mother's, Turpin was eventually able to craft the society under which we now live..._

* * *

Pulling his cloak close, Derek tried imagining that he was somewhere warm and tropical. It was hard with freezing rain pelting down from above, soaking through his shoddily enchanted rainwear. He should have mastered waterproofing with the amount of times he had attempted to fix his cloak. Maybe water elemental spells would never be one of his fortes, but he knew at least a dozen good fireballs incantations. A fistful of enchanted flame always took the chill out. Unfortunately, enchanted flame wasn't allowed on super-secret Dog Pack missions. With a wistful grimace, he resumed his attempt to think warm.

The shrill howl of a dog pierced the evening air. Derek flinched and moved toward the rendezvous with his partner, Shelia. The rain was getting harder now, thick freezing drops of rain converging into confluent frigid sheets of water. Derek spotted her under the trees. Shelia's wild brown hair was plastered flat against her rather nicely shaped head. Derek felt his heart flutter when she smiled mischievously at him. She played at flirting with him like every other man that crossed her path. Derek didn't kid himself that her flirting was anything but friendly, although he had long term plans to someday flirt back and maybe change that situation. Not tonight though. Tonight there were more important things at hand.

"Time to change," Shelia said. With the hint of a whisper and an almost imperceptible glimmer, she became a sleek feline with dramatic white whiskers.

Derek followed suit and assumed his alternate form of a snow hare. Shelia licked Derek's head in a companionable gesture and nudged him forward. This was an old ruse for them. The hare led the way while the cougar pretend-stalked in his wake. Derek began hopping through the slushy mud anxious as only a mission could make him. He chanted in his head, "Careful, quick, safe, careful, quick, safe." His internal chant rolled in perfect rhythm with his steady hops, successfully calming his raw nerves enough that he could function.

Not so far away, the owner of the howl that summoned the rest of the team forward stalked his own prey. A caravan of slow-moving Muggles with a small band of wizard overseers trudged along the heavily worn forest path, baskets of rare herbs and minerals on their backs. More valuable than gold or silver, those ingredients were headed for the cauldrons of the regime to be brewed into strengthening solutions, deadly poisons, and healing elixirs. If Sirius had anything to do with it, those ingredients would be headed for a different set of cauldrons, healing rebel wounds and strengthening rebel soldiers.

Shifting amongst the shadows, Sirius could see his soldiers in their alternate forms lurking along the path. The caravan was almost in position now. With a shrill howl, Sirius initiated the second stage of their raid. He shifted back to his human form, as did most of the rest of the team. The distraction would come next. A small white hare darted out of the woods and charged straight through the circle of six hooded wizards. The caravan might hardly have paused if a roaring cougar hadn't followed closely on the hare's fuzzy cotton tail. In the confusion that followed, Sirius's team vanished the ingredients in the Muggles' back-baskets shifting them away into the woods to safe dry spots for later retrieval.

While most of the team worked vanishing spells, Sirius watched the wizards, ready to block any aggressive spells they managed to try on Shelia or Derek. The other times they'd run this scenario, the guard barely managed to muster shields. Occasionally they'd even Disapparated rather than deal with Shelia in cougar form. Today was different. The six hooded wizards spun in near synchrony, unphased by the cat in their midst. Dark spells hurled so quickly from them that Sirius's attempt to shield his soldiers was only partially effective. A strangled roar of agony erupted from Shelia and she staggered back into the underbrush where she fell. Sirius had no time to consider whether his soldiers had survived the deadly curses that had been hurled at them. The hooded wizards were looking for the shielding wizard who had protected the animals, and they were staring directly toward his patch of shadow.

One of the wizards threw back his hood and screamed a blood curdling battle cry into the dark. Through the near blinding sheets of rain Sirius saw the glint of a red eye glowing. He changed back into his dog form and howled a retreat. At least one of his soldiers was down, and there were Reapers down there. The rest of the team knew not to leave Derek or Shelia behind, but someone needed to distract those killers long enough for the rest of the team to help them.

Sirius shifted back to his human form now that the retreat had been called, feeling winded and exhausted from all the rapid shape-shifting. He strode out of the shadows and cast a pair of Impediment jinxes that ricocheted harmlessly off the shields of the Reapers. The grin that curled across the one unhooded Reaper's face hinted at the madness within that creature. Sirius ran, not because of the fear speeding his heart. He ran, attempting to draw the Reapers away from his wounded kids.

Follow me, Sirius commanded silently. Follow me.

All he could hear was his heart thudding and his feet splashing through the rutted forest road. A curse slipped past his ear, searing wisps of his hair with an incendiary spell that came too close for comfort. Sirius dropped low and spun, casting three quick curses. _"Impedimenta. Expelliarimus. Silencio."_ By casting the spells low, he was attempting to slide through where shielding wards were usually weakest.

The Reaper's laughter wasn't comforting. "Petty little wizard. Surrender to Gluto and die painlessly or fight and suffer till your end."

Sirius didn't recognize the foreign accent of the calm, cocky wizard standing ahead of him. Dumbledore had warned him to strike with deadly force against this creature, that it wasn't human. Sirius focused on the red eye and the black river it swam in... not human. If he didn't act quickly and surprise this thing, he was dead.

The creature seemed to read all the response he needed in the set of Sirius's jaw. With a casual flick of his wand he began casting curses. _"Crucio. Crucio. Crucio." _

Sirius's reflexes were the only things that saved him. Instead of running or rolling to one side, Sirius charged forward under the barrage of dark magic. Like a Muggle in a brawl, Sirius tackled his foe, the most damaging of the dark curses on his lips. _"Avada Kedavra!"_

He tumbled to the ground with Gluto, but the man didn't struggle. The death curse had done its job. By moving close quickly he had hoped to elude any attempts to shield, and he cast the spell with all the aggression and anger he could muster. Sirius disentangled himself from the Reaper. He was just a balding middle-aged man with dark swarthy skin and newly dead eyes. If this was a Reaper, they weren't nearly as mythical as he had assumed they'd be.

Sirius didn't have time to contemplate a fallen bogeyman. His attempt at a distraction only drew one Reaper out? He rose to his feet and took a couple of hesitant steps toward the original fray and his kids. Not kids, soldiers, Sirius corrected himself. They were well-trained soldiers that did their job and were most likely waiting for him at camp now. If he went charging back down there, he'd just be picking another unnecessary fight.

Sirius switched back to his canine form and with a worried whine, loped off into the woods.

* * *

Shelia was seriously hurt, Victor was wounded and Derek was...Edgar turned away from the unmoving bit of furry corpse he could see from his vantage point. After months of efficient missions, something had to go wrong eventually. Someone was bound to be wounded, but he had fooled himself into thinking that no one was ever really going to get killed. They were too careful. They were too good. The commander planned everything.

"Hey Edgar, you're in charge until Commander Black comes back, right?" a girl asked.

It was a testament to how completely off kilter he was that it took him a good minute to place the name of the willowy blond girl at his elbow. "Yes, Alice?"

"Well, shouldn't someone get Shelia and Victor to the infirmary tent, now? She's hurt pretty bad. I can go with them," Alice offered. "Edgar?"

"Go then," Edgar said. "Bring Derek with you too, okay?"

Alice didn't say anything about the fact that the healers at the infirmary would have little luck with the dead rabbit she would be bringing them. But maybe they'd be able to return him to his human form for a proper burial. The reverting spell they'd tried had had no effect on the dead form. Of course they'd never tried to work the spell on a dead transformed animagus.

"Give him here!" Shelia shouted.

Edgar turned toward the screeching that had erupted from the deathly wounded girl. She was straining toward the motionless form of her friend. The rest of the soldiers were staring transfixed, unsure what to do. Alice and a couple of others held Shelia back from crawling to Derek. Edgar realized how close to tears he was when his vision clouded, and he strode over to the limp rabbit. Scooping the corpse up, he crouched next to Shelia and let her see him, let her touch him. She pulled Derek into her arms, cradled him to her chest like a baby, and began to rock rhythmically. "Oh no," she keened. "Oh no."

While he wasn't a healer, Edgar still didn't like the way Shelia was breathing, gasping. She was too pale, almost blue. He should have got her to the infirmary the moment they made it back to camp. "Quick, we have to move her to the infirmary now. Alice, help me."

Technically, Edgar knew he should wait with the rest of the soldiers until Sirius returned. This was a task he should delegate, but he didn't want to stand around with those scared men and women. He was in charge technically, and they might expect him to say something, to do something. Well, helping levitate Shelia was active; it was doing something.

* * *

"Where the Hell's Edgar?" Sirius stormed into camp looking for his wounded soldiers and his second in command with a sweeping gaze. He approached one of his newer recruits, a scrawny young man with large brown eyes and water-slicked blondish hair. "Walter, I need a head count and a report. Where's Edgar? Is everyone okay?"

"Shelia and Victor are wounded. Edgar and Alice escorted them to the infirmary. Derek, he died. Everyone else is back and fine." Walter didn't meet his commander's eyes while he reported, instead focusing somewhere over his shoulder into the dark woods. "We haven't checked on the supplies we were trying to steal yet, sir."

Sirius didn't say anything for a long moment. A dozen eyes were boring into him. His other soldiers, the men and women who entrusted their lives to his judgment, were waiting for their explanation. They were owed something. His cute game of robbing the regime had gone horribly wrong for the first time. Sirius felt his breaths coming painfully like his chest was filled with concrete.

"What now, sir?" Walter asked.

Looking around the camp at the freezing, soggy, exhausted men and women, Sirius felt his chest loosen. He didn't have the option of falling apart right now. When he accepted this command from Moody, he knew what he was getting in to. It was time to face up and pay the piper. This wasn't a game. It never had been. "Now we do our jobs. Those things out there that looked like wizards were Reapers. Emperor Turpin himself sent those things to exterminate us because we're annoying him. Well, I only counted six of them. I killed one tonight. We'll just see who gets exterminated." Sirius met the gaze of his soldiers and recognized his own lust for revenge staring back at him. "Get the goods we secured into camp and off to where they're needed. I expect a complete report when I get back."

Sirius walked away briskly, his mind working feverishly at the problem the Reapers posed to his Dog Pack. Losing soldiers wasn't acceptable. They were going to have to be a lot more careful, and as distasteful as it was, they needed to be ready to kill their enemies.

* * *

The infirmary smelled antiseptic and herbal. The smooth taste of chamomile practically drenched the air, filling Sirius's mouth and nose. He'd avoided this moment as long as he could. Shelia met her commander's eyes from her hospital bed. He almost questioned if she had managed a complete human transformation. Those angry eyes belonged on a ferocious cougar, not a critically wounded woman.

"Is he still a rabbit?" Shelia asked. Propped up in her hospital bed, she was partially wrapped in bandages. "The healers managed to put him right, didn't they? I mean he's a human corpse now?"

Sirius didn't flinch at the raw bitterness in Shelia's tone. She had a right to her grief. He had seen the two of them together, and he knew how close they were. "Derek isn't a rabbit anymore. I sent an owl to his parents."

"Good." Shelia's glare didn't waiver. The commander was supposed to have shielded them from curses. He was supposed to have protected Derek. No matter that the best shield in the world wasn't very effective against six simultaneous Avada Kedavra curses. Never mind that she and Derek both knew the risks they were taking. "Could you leave me alone, Commander? I'm very tired."

"Of course you are," Sirius said. "I'll let you rest now." Walking through the infirmary, Sirius brushed past the healers without a word and none of them dared attempt talking to the grim-faced commander. Sirius wasn't headed back to his corner of camp yet. He needed a moment. He needed a friend. James had to be in camp. Sirius needed a friend who understood what it felt like to cast Avada Kedavra, a friend who had lost soldiers under his command, a friend to share a firewhiskey and tell him that he'd done the right thing

And if James wasn't in camp...he could at least still have the firewhiskey.

* * *

"List the top twelve words of power for igniting ordinary flame in Arabic, Latin, and Greek," Harry read. "Let's take it around in a circle."

More than half a dozen of the first year students were gathered together in one of the school's study rooms sitting in an arc around the fire. Everyone had their Spell Crafting notes open and they were actively cramming for Professor Dover's first exam. Hermione closed her eyes and looked heavenward, her mouth working silently for several seconds before she spoke. "Incendia, Ignis, Flamma, Fire," she said.

"Exuro, Extermino, Aduro, Exussum, Ardeo," Valerie Gunther said. She grinned and turned to Ron.

_Yeah, you grin_, Ron thought. The girls had named all but four of the Latin words and he couldn't think of them. Thumbing through his scrolls of parchment, he tried to find the page with the stupid terms on it.

"Coniecto, Ustulo, Ustilo, Ustulo," Draco said in a bored tone. He made a point of not looking at his notes and yawning at Ron.

"Latin down. Who wants to start the Greek?" Harry asked.

"I'm going to bed," Hannah Abbot said. She tucked her long red hair behind her ears and gathered her notes to her chest.

"Yeah," Ron grumbled. He tossed a disgusted look at Draco and folded his own notes together. "If I don't get a little rest I won't remember anything anyway."

The group fell apart rapidly, everyone saying their goodnights. Harry lingered behind with Hermione because she wasn't packing up her things. "You going to sleep tonight?" Harry asked.

"No, I don't think I will. There's too much to do that I haven't done," Hermione said. There was a touch of desperation in her voice. "I'm going to fail everything."

"You're too smart to fail everything," Harry said. He wasn't lying to make her feel better either. Hermione was smart. Just keeping her head above water with the limited preparation she'd had for school was impressive. He wasn't cruising through things and he'd been in preparatory school for six years. She'd only been reading for a year. "You have to sleep the night before a test or your brain won't work tomorrow."

"I don't have to do anything, Harry. Go to bed," Hermione snapped. "I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

The next morning Harry found Hermione dozing in her chair, notes scattered about her feet. Soft snores filled the otherwise empty study room. Ron pushed past him and grimaced. "She really did stay out here all night. It almost seems cruel to wake her up to go to the test."

"It would be crueller to let her sleep," Harry said.

Hermione stirred and blinked at the two boys in the doorway. With a pained wince she rotated one shoulder then the other. "What time is it?"

"Test time," Ron said. "Ready?"

"Drink this," Harry said. He shoved a glass of strong smelling black liquid under her nose and Hermione recoiled. "It's called coffee."

"Where'd you get coffee?" Ron asked. "That stuff is bloody expensive. I've never even smelled it." He sniffed as though he'd love to try the odiferous concoction.

"I snuck it out of the staff lounge," Harry said. "Not worth the risk on your average day but Hermione is going to need every bit of stimulant I can find. Unfortunately, we're not ready to brew a rise and shine potion. I looked it up; it's complicated."

Hermione snatched the cup out of Harry's hand and sniffed it delicately herself. "This will wake me up?"

"Absolutely," Harry said.

Not needing any more assurance, Hermione gulped the bitter beverage down in five seconds flat. "Ugh, that's, ugh."

"Ready?" Ron asked. "We're going to be late."

For once, the first year students would be meeting a class as a whole. Professor Dover's test would be a group bonding experience. Harry took the open seat next to Draco, while Ron and Hermione took the last pair of seats on the other side of the room. The late bell rang moments after they had settled into their spots.

Elspeth Dover gestured with her crooked knobby wand and scrolls of parchment appeared on the desks around the room. "I don't have to tell you not to cheat. You have three hours starting now."

Harry looked down at the first question and took up his quill.

1. When casting elemental magic and the word of power exists in both masculine and feminine forms, which should be employed in which instances for greatest effect?

* * *

"Maybe I didn't fail," Hermione murmured. She stirred at her bowl of meaty stew absently without taking a bite. The aggravated desperation was gone from her voice, replaced by a resigned depression. "What do they do with you when you fail?"

"You aren't going to fail," Ron said. "You study more than any three of the rest of us." He shoved a roll in his mouth, ending his attempts at conversation for a few seconds.

Hermione didn't answer Ron's reassurances. She had done all she could. She just wished she felt better about the test. Hermione gazed down the table at her classmates and frowned. The test wasn't the only thing that had her worried. Harry hadn't joined them at lunch today. He was sitting farther down the table, between Draco and Terry Boot. Hermione understood that he needed to preserve the delicate sort-of-friendship he had managed with his partner, but she didn't like Malfoy and she wasn't buying his sudden willingness to get along. Getting your face marked and losing a shot at the third tier had to be traumatic. But that was still the boy who had insulted them all on the first day. He was still the boy who threatened to sabotage them and get them all declassified.

Ron followed her gaze and mirrored her frown. "Think he's going to keep inviting the git to study group?"

"Of course he is," Hermione said quietly. "Harry trusts people, even when it's stupid to."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I guess the biggest thing I need to address in here, is blocking killing curses. JK Rowling is very clear that you can't block them, but this is an AU and for the purpose of this fic, all spells can be blocked at least to a mitigating degree if not completely.


	6. Duck, Duck, Goose

**Chapter 5 – Duck, Duck...Goose**

History of the World Volume XIIX Chapter 5 The Rule of Turpin – The Iron Hand of Turpin and His Enforcers, His Six Reapers

_When an empire grows to span the entire world, a single man, an emperor, cannot hope to manage the smallest details of his society. His rule becomes less personal, more general and sweeping. The world knows the emperor by his subordinates, his governors, his generals. In centuries past, Emperor Turpin created a small personal army consisting of six demon-wizards. Their names: Savio, Fastosus, Gluto, Invidia, Irritum, and Avaritia were taken from the Latin for the vices: wrath, pride, gluttony, envy, lust, and greed. Their common name, Reapers, was coined by an unknown person during the Baltic Rebellion in the fourteenth century. Through this elite cadre, Turpin has maintained a personal hand amongst his subjects... _

* * *

A witch's workshop betrays many things about the master magic crafter within. When Snape crossed the threshold into his new mistress's chamber, he wondered at the sanity of the witch within. Abacuses lined the walls, while lines of mathematical reasoning covered every visible surface. There were graphs of asymptotes and bell curves. Picking his way toward the center of the chaos, he found the source of the mess. A curvy witch with a mass of black hair piled on her head in a lopsided bun, stared raptly at a map of Europe with a set of circles drawn on it.

"Excuse me, Oscasia?" Snape asked.

The woman turned, almost falling off her stool. "No no, not Oscasia. She's our coordinator, a hands-on type but not much for the numbers. You won't be seeing much of her. I'm Mabel Turpin, and you'll be assisting me here. Your records say you're exceptional with logic and arithmetacy. I have some numbers for you to work through for me. What was your name? Snap? You are Snap, right?"

"Snape, Serverus Snape." Mastering his voice into polite tones, he refused to let the short slob of a witch rankle him over a seemingly innocent mispronunciation. While staring at Mabel's map, Snape gestured vaguely at the clutter in the room. "What is all of this, if I'm allowed to ask?"

"Ask me anything," Mabel said. "I'll tell you what I can." She pointed to the map with the circles. "After a hundred and fifty years dealing with South America, our epicenter shifted about twenty years ago. Before you ask what the epicenter is, you don't get to know. It's our job to make sure the emperor finds what he's looking for within this area." Mabel sighed deeply. "It's mostly statistics and probability that we'll be working on. Are you up to this?"

"I have no problem with statistics or probability," Snape said. He didn't bother to ask what the emperor was looking for. It was bound to come out eventually, and his curiosity could wait until it did.

* * *

A passel of opossums, greasy, gray creatures that hissed and spat at the students in front of them, stared out of their wicker cages. Professor Riddle tapped the cages and one caged opossum appeared in front of each pair of students. "Is everyone up to date on their reading?" he asked. "I hope so."

"Mr. Green, what kind of curse might we be practicing on our specimens today?" Riddle asked. When Harry didn't answer right away, Riddle smirked. "Okay, Mr. Green, do you know what they are?"

Harry shook his head. The creature was staring at him with its shiny beady eyes, its lips curled back in a perpetual snarl. "I've never seen them before, but from the reading...Are they opossums, sir?"

"Good, if you read enough to identify one, can you tell me what curse we'll be practicing today?" Riddle asked.

"The Tbowg curse?" Harry answered hesitantly.

"Good," Riddle said. "Does everyone understand why an opossum is the ideal creature to practice Tbowg curses on? Explain it to me, Malfoy."

Draco stared at Professor Riddle, allowing his simmering hatred for the man to boil behind his eyes. "Not that this is Ecology, but Tbowg is a basic bottom-line barrier breaker. Opossums are natural magical barriers."

Harry glanced at Draco, shocked at the cheeky tone he was using with the man who carved a hunk out of his face. Not that today was any different than usual. Draco acted like Riddle had done his worst, and now there wasn't anything to fear. Personally, Harry suspected that their professor wasn't out of severe punishments, but so far Riddle had ignored Draco's attitude except for some minor homework punishments.

"No, this isn't Ecology," Professor Riddle said. "Perhaps we should discuss what this class is in detention tonight. Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Green, I will see the two of you here at seven. Bring your wands."

On their way out of class, Harry dogged Draco's steps. "Why do you have to act like that in his class? I've done more extra homework essays because of your attitude, and now we're adding detentions. It's pointless. You think he's going to take his veto back because you mouthed off?"

Without breaking stride, Draco cast Harry a self-important smile. "He knows he hasn't got to me, not really. The day I roll over and play nice for him, he wins. You should really thank me, Green. With me giving him cheek, your boot-licking is twice as impressive."

Harry lost step, his spine straightening. "Boot-licking? I don't lick anyone's boots, thank you very much. I'm just keeping my nose clean."

"Whatever you say, Green." Draco pushed through the doors to the Great Hall and headed for the queue.

Instead of heading straight for the line of people where he would be forced to continue in Draco's company, Harry plopped into a seat between Hermione and Ron. Biting back his need to vent, Harry smiled at his two friends and stole a roll from Ron. "How was Ecology this morning?" Harry asked. Since neither of them was covered in anything foul it appeared to have gone relatively well.

"Fine," Ron muttered. "We may yet survive the term, if Hermione can stop accidentally irritating every creature in class."

"Hey, everything went fine today, remember," Hermione snapped.

"Yeah, it's hard to rile up a tuft of Greener Grass," Ron said. "What's going to happen when Professor Wesson brings something a little more interesting to class like a Hippogriff or a poisonous serpent?"

Listening to the two of them argue over his head, Harry almost regretted joining them, but they were an excellent distraction. Trying to keep up with their current drama prevented him from even thinking about his own. Gnawing absently at Ron's wheat roll, it took him a few seconds to realize that the bickering duo were staring at him silently. "What?" Harry asked.

"I asked you how Dark Arts went today," Hermione said. "Did Draco get you another essay?"

"Nah, we've graduated to detentions. This partner thing is completely ridiculous. When Riddle finally gets fed up and murders him, will I get the killing curse too?" Harry shoved the rest of Ron's roll down and pushed himself to his feet, heading for the food line.

"He shouldn't joke about that," Hermione said. She tucked her bushy hair behind her ear. Brandishing her fork like a weapon of mass destruction, she attacked her cheesy pasta. "Third tier wizards are allowed to use Avada Kedavra, Crucio, and even Imperius at their discretion as long as it isn't another third tier wizard they're casting on. Professor Riddle could kill one of his students without repercussions."

"That's not true," Ron said. "Is it? Where did you hear that?"

"Unlike some people I've been reading Professor Fudge's assignments, and they're actually quite enlightening." Hermione chewed silently for a few moments and continued in a tentative tone. "I'm sorry about the Ecology stuff, okay. I'm really not trying to make the magical creatures angry. I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"Your mood is the problem from what I can tell," Neville offered. Hermione spun toward her soft-spoken round-faced classmate, a whole litany of angry declarations about eavesdroppers on the tip of her tongue. "See you're angry now. Those creatures can tell, and it sets them on edge."

"What do you know about it?" Hermione asked. "I'm not always angry in Ecology."

"I'm sure you're not." Neville's agreement lacked conviction, and he rose with his dirty dishes. "See you later."

"Who does he think he is, lecturing me about my mood bothering the magical creatures?" Hermione groused.

"His mother is **just** a famous Magic Ecologist," Millicent Bulstrode said, defending her partner. She rolled her eyes at Hermione and shook her head. "He practically knows more than Professor Wesson. Maybe you should listen to him before you get yourself or your partner hurt."

Even though they'd only been working together a few weeks, Ron recognized the tension knotting Hermione's shoulders and curling her fingers into fists. She was approximately one interchange from completely losing her cool. "Really, well maybe you shouldn't roll your eyes so much, Millicent? It draws attention to your unibrow," Ron said. He smiled with fake concern at the dark-haired girl's shocked expression. "What was that about Professor Riddle being able to kill us all, Hermione?" Ron asked. He hoped his subtle topic steering would help her calm down. The girl had serious anger management issues.

Still tense and staring at Millicent, Hermione gradually let her gaze slide back to her food. "He can kill anyone not on the third tier with impunity. He would have to answer to his peers, and if they felt he was behaving unfairly they could censure him or even have him brought before the emperor, but that's all after the fact."

"Brutal," Ron said. "Remind me to be on my best behavior in that class."

"It makes you wonder though, what his detention will be like," Hermione said.

"No afternoon classes today," Hannah Abbot said. She and her partner stopped long enough to share their news. "There's some kind of assembly here in the Great Hall. Professor Riddle sent us back down."

"Assembly?" Hermione clutched her Spell Crafting book close, a frown creasing her brow. She turned to Ron. "What kind of assembly?"

"Why are you asking me when I just found out about it too?" Ron asked. "I doubt it's very important."

With his plate of food in hand, Harry squeezed back between Ron and Hermione. "I see you heard about the assembly. It's getting us out of class. Isn't that great?" Harry said. He grinned and idly sculpted his mashed potatoes with his fork. "With that detention tonight, I did not need any Spell Crafting homework."

"I'm so proud for you, Harry," Hermione said. "Unfortunately, we'll all get tested on the material whether we get the lecture or not. We need another study night. Tonight we're supposed to cover History of Magic for the test tomorrow. Maybe this Friday could be our extra Spell Crafting night?"

"We do not need another study night," Ron groaned. "I can't take much more of this place. First years can't join clubs, play sports, or do ANYTHING that doesn't involve a textbook. If it weren't for my old set of wizard chess, I think I'd be stark raving mental right now."

"Losing to you at chess has been something to look forward to," Harry said. "Want to play tonight after my detention?"

Ron cast Hermione an annoyed look. "There's no chance of prying her out of a textbook long enough so yeah, unless Riddle keeps you all night. Aren't you a little worried about that detention?"

"Why worry? I figure me and Draco will be writing lines or something else tedious. Just because Riddle's third tier and short tempered and teaches Dark Arts doesn't mean he's going to toss us on the rack for detention."

"Silence! Quiet please," Headmistress McGonagall called. She waited for the stragglers to grab a seat and all talking to cease before continuing. "Our school is being visited by...some very special guests. The Lady Oscasia will be speaking with you this afternoon."

While the headmistress spoke the students watched the exotic cadre of third tier witches standing to her right. The woman standing out front wore golden diaphanous robes. They were cinched close to her body at her neck and fore arms and waist with beautifully carved golden ropes of snakes. Her face was painted with dramatic black lines in the fashion of ancient Egyptian royalty. Standing next to McGonagal and her simple black robes the woman seemed too bright, garish and overdone.

"Hello, children," Oscasia said. "We are looking for a student for Special Dispensation, Service to the Emperor. Come forward youngest first, and be examined."

Oscasia's four handmaidens, girls dressed as replicas of their mistress except that they wore white robes and silver serpents, levitated a black stone forward and settled it onto the staff table in front of their mistress.

Hesitantly the first year students rose. At McGonagoll's sharp gesture, they picked up their pace and headed forward nearly single file. Harry watched the students ahead of him touch the stone as though it were any other divination stone, but there were no flashes like when the sorting happened. Harry brushed his fingers over the cool stone, and pulled his hand back quickly. The surface was numbing, gritty, and sticky. His fingers were tingling from their momentary encounter. When he looked again after getting back to his seat, the stone looked clear and smooth, nothing like the nasty surface his hand had felt.

Next to him, Hermione was rubbing her hand on her robe and she leaned close to whisper in his ear. "It wasn't clean."

Harry nodded and watched the other students file past. Most didn't seem to notice anything amiss with the stone, but others were obviously nonplussed by its texture. About halfway through the fifth year students the procession stopped abruptly, students actually bumping into each other as forward progress ended. One of Ron's brothers, Fred or George, Harry couldn't really tell which, had touched the stone and the block had turned brilliant crimson. He seemed to be trying to pull his hand back from the red stone unsuccessfully. Harry could imagine the stone's stickiness cementing and holding a hand to it.

Oscasia came down to the front of the dais a half-smile twisting her lips crookedly. She bowed from her waist to the Weasley twin who was snared. "What is your name?" she asked.

"Fred Weasley, Lady," he said quickly. He returned her bow as best he could with his hand caught. "I seem to be stuck."

Oscasia tapped the stone with her wand, and it released Fred's hand. Almost immediately it shifted from red to black again. "You will need to come with us, Mr. Weasley."

The other Weasley twin, George, was hanging back, a rather shocked expression on his face. Fred flexed his newly freed hand experimentally and wiped it surreptitiously on his robes. Oscasia placed a hand at his back and steered him forward. Looking over his shoulder, Fred caught George's eye and shrugged.

The handmaidens whisked the stone away while Oscasia steered Fred out the door. As soon as the door closed sealing the departing witches from view, conversations erupted around the room. Ron was out of his seat the moment the doors closed. "What the heck could the emperor want with my brother?" Ron asked. "I have to talk to George."

"Quiet please," McGonagall called. She had practically faded into the tapestry decorating the wall behind her while Oscasia and her witches had presided over the room. "I want everyone to head straight back to their dormitories. Use this extra time to study."

"Right like anyone's going to study after that display. Do you think she even knows what they want with Fred?" Harry asked.

Hermione didn't answer. She was watching Ron's back as he headed forward against the flow of the students toward his remaining brother. "I should go with him," she said. "He's my partner, and he's upset."

"Yeah," Harry said. She'd said partner, but he knew what she meant. Ron had achieved a rare honour in Hermione's universe. He was a friend, and she wasn't about to abandon him. "We should both go. Come on."

By the time they reached Ron and George McGonagall was gone, and the brothers were deep in conversation. George nodded toward Harry and Hermione. He spun away from his brother and headed out of the room at a near run.

"Is everything okay?" Hermione asked.

"Not exactly," Ron said. "We have no idea what's going on. That pack of third tier witches showed up on McGonagal's doorstep with their black divination stone and a dispensation from the Emperor to test all the kids here."

"Test them for what?" Harry asked. "They just came in here and took your big brother without telling anyone what they wanted with him?"

"I know it's crazy!" Ron shouted. "George is freaking out. He went to McGonagal's office to try and find out what's happening. She's supposed to be contacting her superiors."

"I have to go," Hermione said abruptly. She stared at Ron, a fierce determined look in her eyes. Only a girl raised without the privilege of literacy could really understand the power in a book. The wizards wrote everything down. Books had answers. There were thousands of books in the school, and one of them would be able to explain what a special dispensation to the emperor meant. She wanted to tell Ron that everything was going to be okay, but she didn't believe in platitudes or lying. "I have some research to do."

"I really don't understand her," Ron said. He stared after Hermione and turned a disgusted look on Harry. "She's going to study, now? She doesn't even care."

"Are you kidding? Hermione cares," Harry said. "She's just left to read every book in the building for your sake unless I'm guessing wrong. She wants to help you, and there aren't any eyes around for her to scratch out on your behalf. She just doesn't deal with one-on-one emotional situations. She finds something to do."

"Could you stop with the psychological guru stuff? You don't know what she's feeling or why she does the things she does. My brother, my big brother..." Ron gestured wildly, tears pooling in his eyes. "What if this is something bad?"

"Maybe it's something good?" Harry said. He shrugged and took a seat on the dais. "Why assume the worst? This could be anything. Didn't you say your brothers were on the Quidditch lineup for the Westies, and if there were more than three injuries this year, one or both of them might get called up?"

"This has nothing to do with Quidditch," Ron said. He slumped down next to Harry and mustered a lukewarm smile. "It isn't necessarily something bad though. Is it?"

"Not necessarily."

* * *

"What am I supposed to do, Albus?" Minerva paced in front of the two-talk mirror on her office wall. "I have to tell his parents something, but I have no idea where he is, why he was taken, or what they plan to do with him?"

"Tell them the truth," Albus said. "Everyone understands the arbitrary nature of this tiered system. I expect that Fred Weasley is fine, performing a service for the emperor that he is well qualified for."

"So I write his parents, tell them that their son is somewhere doing something and that they'll probably hear from him sooner or later," Minerva said. "You don't know anything about this. You're sure? There hasn't been an inkling?"

Albus stared out at Minerva his eyes unwavering. "I would tell you if I knew anything." With a wave of his hand, the mirror went blank.

Minerva raised her wand to summon him back, her eyes watering. One word, one truth, one accusation was sitting in her mouth like a bitter pill, and she wanted to spit it at him.

"Liar," she hissed at the blank mirror.


	7. High Tea

**Chapter 6 – High Tea**

History of the World Volume XI Chapter 2 The Rule of Turpin – Shepherds and Their Responsibility

_Becoming a member of the second tier of society imbues a wizard or witch with various rights and privileges. Perhaps more importantly, responsibilities accompany any rise in station. As a second tier wizard, one shares in the responsibility for maintaining balance between all lesser beings: non-magical humans, plants, and beasts. Perhaps the most delicate and difficult to protect are the humans who lack magic, commonly referred to as Muggles. Their pride is immense considering their capabilities, and they must be humoured in many situations. For instance, if you attempt to dismantle their local government and rebuild it more efficiently, the Muggles are more likely to revolt and consequently die. Was the revolution the fault of the Muggles or the wizards and witches who were supposed to be protecting them? This same reasoning can be extrapolated for third tier wizards..._

* * *

A row of tiny jade florets rested on a pad of clean yellow linen. The sun had been shining on the jade all day, baking it with energy. Now after some key hours of maturation under moonlight, the stage was set for a binding. Lily traced her slim fingers around the work space and over the jade without touching it. The unique swirling spirals of polished cloudy green stone would make perfect dragon bane charms. They were designed to discourage dragons from hunting the wizard or Muggle wearing them. These were for her family, well her sister's family. They lived in Hampstead where her husband was the town blacksmith. It was serious dragon country there, and the charms would be appreciated. Christmas was right around the corner.

Rustling around in a leather pouch, Lily took a generous pinch of ground Rince Wort and sprinkled it over the dew-dampened space. More waiting, Lily leaned back and started counting the seconds until she would need to complete the process.

What was she doing making Christmas presents before October? It wasn't in her nature to be so proactive. James had thought some medical leave was necessary after everything that happened with her false pregnancy, and she hadn't argued. She needed to rest, but not because of some small lingering physical discomfort. She had taken the time to mourn, and she'd spent every free moment making charms, cooking lovely dinners, taking volunteer shifts at the infirmary. She'd been so busy in her time off, that she was able to avoid dealing with the grief almost all the time. Then a detail would catch her the wrong way, and everything would rush to the surface. Not today though, today had been a good day, very busy.

Time to finish, Lily flexed her fingers preparing to cast the spell to compete the charm, and her eyes clouded behind a sheen of tears. She had found the button to trigger a memory. Today it was her fingers. They swelled terribly the first time she was pregnant. James had brewed her dozens of different potions to help with the discomfort. He wasn't so good with a cauldron but he tried, and she drank every concoction, until she couldn't stand it anymore and had to get something from a real healer. She never told James about going to see a healer. He just assumed it was his last potion that fixed her up. James liked to fix things.

Lily shook her head and wiped furiously at her eyes. She was not going to waste an entire day's work because she was an emotional wreck. "_Flaggin Zoeo Dracos_." Light glowed around her tear-soaked fingers, and a sparkle settled into the jade florets. She folded the linen at the corners, making a snug pouch. To touch the fresh charms would undo all her work.

Back at camp Lily walked into a beehive of activity. Tents were coming down and formations of soldiers on broomsticks were flying away with loads of goods. Semi-permanent base camp appeared to be making an unscheduled move. She didn't bother any of the frantically working soldiers, instead heading for her home amongst the tents. There she found James putting the finishing touches on closing their conveniently mobile domicile. It folded into a neat six inch cube. "If we're going to be on the move for long, I'm going to need to do something about the stew I had on the fire," Lily said.

James looked her way without smiling, and she knew it was bad. His face was pale and pinched. He mustered an insincere smile and tucked their tent under his arm. "We've had a little security breach. I'm going on with the men, but you're on medical leave, and I need you to head to London for me."

"You can just take me off medical leave if it means we're splitting up. I'm not leaving you alone," Lily said quietly. "Where are we headed anyway?"

"It isn't what you're thinking," James said. "I need you to check on my Dad. He's very ill. I just got word. As much as I'd like to go myself, you know I can't leave right now."

"I'm sorry. Of course I'll check on your father." Lily held her arm out for one of the brooms James was carrying around. Their hands touched on the broom handle and Lily slid close for an embrace and kiss. She tilted her head back and smiled. "This is a rebellion, a military entity, not a patriarchy. If this is a game you're playing, trying to keep me out of danger, I swear I'll find a mission so stupid and reckless that Sirius wouldn't even consider it, and I'm going to sign on." Lily caressed James's cheek, a determined glint in her eyes. "Now, do you still want me to go to London?"

"More than anything in the world, love," James said. "But I'm going to miss you every second." They kissed again, a lingering lip-lock that only ended when Lily pushed away. She straddled her broom and kicked off into the sky without arguing further. As much as he loved her and would miss her, James had never been more relieved to see Lily heading away from him. If she knew what he'd seen this afternoon, she wouldn't have had to ask if he was thinking of excuses to get her out of the line of fire. She would have known it beyond any shadow of a doubt.

James used his wand to label the tent and tossed it in with a pile of goods headed to the new camp. Mounting his broom, he zoomed away into the trees. James wasn't headed for the new camp over in an obscure corner of the Greek wilderness. There was too much unfinished business in this wilderness. Malingerers, healers and soldiers, marked the periphery of the minor atrocity that instigated their abrupt relocation of camp.

James dismounted in one fluid motion with grace honed from a childhood of Quidditch. Keepers and Quaffles seemed like a million years ago sometimes. It was hard to believe that there were kids still playing the same games back in the Empire, still chasing Snitches and beating Bludgers. The smoldering war wasn't real to them, like Quidditch was only a memory to him.

Thoughts of Quidditch evaporated as James approached the clearing. He didn't bother asking a healer or one of the curse breakers if they'd made any progress. The scene hadn't changed since his first glimpse. There were six of them: six random soldiers on sentinel duty who never checked in after their shift. The replacement shift found them.

Walking into the unnaturally still clearing, James grimaced but didn't look away. They had been killed, and judging by their unmarked corpses, Avada Kedavra had been used. The deaths would be a minor tragedy in and of themselves, but soldiers died. It was a simple constant of the profession. It was the curse that had been cast on their bodies after their deaths that made this particular situation more disturbing. The six of them were frozen in a parody of a dinner party. Sitting on air with their nonexistent glasses raised, they toasted something unseen. Their dead flesh curled back in mockingly empty grins. Their opaque eyes gazed up unseeing.

A crow landed on one of the corpses, and James lifted his wand a spell on his lips, but he stopped himself. Casting anything so close to a net of curses was a foolish, potentially suicidal thing to do.

A ring of curse breakers were spread around the posed corpses testing the site with runes scribbled in the sand, sketching figures in the air with their wands, and muttering spells. It seemed like completely unorganized chaos to James, but he had never had any real in-depth curse breaker training.

"Time out!" the ranking curse breaker shouted. He was a stocky solid man, with bright red hair and more than a smattering of freckles. "Someone shoo that damn crow away. Update me. Anything new?"

"I'm getting close to figuring out the timer, but this is big, Lieutenant. It's scary," one of the young women answered.

The other curse breakers had little to add to the update. As soon as they'd settled back to work, the Lieutenant stepped away. He noticed James and the commander bars on his shoulder. "Sir," the lieutenant said. "The Lieutenant Colonel ordered all nonessential personnel out immediately. You aren't on my team, sir."

"Commander Potter." James offered the young man his hand, ignoring his failure to salute. "I was ranking officer at camp when this happened. I'm not leaving until that's fixed or the evacuation is complete. Tell me you've made some progress getting this deconstructed."

"I'm Lieutenant Weasley." Seeming to remember his protocol, he started to salute, but stopped in the middle to take James' hand instead. "We're making progress, slowly. This isn't a simple curse. There are quite a few layers here. We have identified the name of the sculpture they're posing. It's a French piece, Raul DeLoncrey was the artist and the original was called The Jovial Supper. The person who cast the curse signed their work. It's there, carved into Private Lewis on her arm. Invidia. We also know that there is a timed element to the curse. It's winding down or winding toward something. If we can't disarm it, there is no telling what will happen when it activates."

"Thus the impromptu evacuation," James said. "Do you have any idea when this countdown is ending or what will happen?"

"We're working on it," Lieutenant Weasley said.

"Charlie! I mean, sir, Lieutenant Weasley, sir," one of the witches shouted. It was the same woman who reported on the countdown timer earlier, James noticed. "It's going down now, tonight, at midnight. The witching hour is in less than twenty minutes."

The activity around the cursed circle stopped and all attention turned to the two officers. "Everyone to the evacuation transportation circle," Charlie shouted. "Move!"

Though he was ranking officer, James didn't argue, instead following Charlie and his soldiers to the circle of runes set aside at a safe distance. As his soldiers stepped into the circle, Charlie waved his wand and sent them on to the new base camp. It took only a few minutes to send everyone except Charlie and James through. "Sir, step into the circle," Charlie said.

"And who's going to activate the circle for you?" James asked without moving.

"I'm not leaving, obviously," Charlie said. "I'm going to have a last ditch go at that damn curse. Step in the circle, sir, and stop wasting my time."

"Let me help," James said.

Charlie looked like he was considering tackling the lanky Commander and wrestling him into the circle, but with an exasperated sigh he gestured with his wand and obliterated the runes that had been the escape route. "Curses can sometimes follow paths between transportation circles," Charlie explained. "I don't have time to argue with you, so you're going to stay back unless I ask for your help, sir."

Charlie came to a skidding stop at the clearing and started scribbling runes into the sand. Under his breath he mumbled trigger words of power, looking for a thread to unravel in the complex tapestry of curse playing out in front of him.

Wind had begun to blow through the trees, unnatural hot wind that seemed to swirl directly from the center of the clearing, from the heart of the corpse dinner party. James gripped his broom harder so that the wind couldn't snatch it from him. "Lieutenant, maybe we should make a run for it," James shouted over the howls of the wind. "Lieutenant!"

"I see it," Charlie whispered. It was foolhardy to try curse breaking on a whim or with your gut, but sometimes when there was no time, you had to gamble. "Investos Disodos." He cast the spell at what he hoped was the curse's core binding.

Commander Potter grabbed him by the arm and jerked him back from the circle. "We need to make a run for it," James shouted again.

"It's too late," Charlie replied. "You can't Disapparate here, and it's already flowing. I didn't break it."

James mounted his broom, fully prepared to throw the Lieutenant across the handle and fly like Hell, but when he kicked off, nothing happened. The broom jerked helplessly and didn't rise at all. "Soldier, you know how to run, because now's the time," James said.

"It's safer to get closer," Charlie replied. The wind was dying back now, or spreading away. "If we actually get in the circle, we might be safe. It's the eye of the storm. It's our only chance."

* * *

London was a dark town, a tilted town. Buildings that had been standing for centuries, whose wood and nails and mortar long since turned to rot, stood by the grace of the ancient spells fortifying them. The smell of decay wasn't overwhelming but its muggy moldy fog was certainly oppressive. Lily flew through the old section of town without pausing to sightsee. She and James had a house in the newer section of town, a yellow house with a huge picture window out front.

Coming to land on her doorstep, Lily couldn't shake the feeling that this was someone else's home. It had been closed for years. They even had a cover story about being in South America on a humanitarian mission for the downtrodden Muggles. It kept tongues from wagging about their constant absence. Her showing up without James was bound to start a different type of gossip flying. Was there trouble in paradise? Were the Potters coming back to London to petition for a divorce? Well she wouldn't be staying long enough to have to deal with the vicious society witches, hopefully. Lily opened her front door without a key. Keys were a childhood tool, a Muggle tool. There were complicated wards protecting the Potter's front door, but nothing tangible like a deadbolt. An enemy or a thief would have a hard time getting past the threshold but a friend would never be turned away.

Instead of the dusty empty house she'd expected, Lily found herself in a shining clean room. Fresh trimmed candles were in every sconce, and the smell of pine oil was almost overwhelming. Moving forward cautiously toward the living room and the crackle of a fresh fire, Lily didn't know what to expect. The tired-looking young man dozing on the chaise wasn't on her short list. "Remus?"

Breaking into a full body stretch and dramatic yawn, Lupin smiled at Lily. "Hi, I took the liberty of opening your house. Sorry for not asking, but I wasn't expecting you any time soon. I've been on a mission that has had me in London for several nights now, and I needed somewhere to stay where there wouldn't be questions."

"No, I understand completely," Lily said. She propped her broom against the wall and took a seat across from Lupin, one of James' closest childhood friends. They had attended school together for almost five years, before anyone found out what he was...Well, that he was infected. Lily wasn't a fan of the lycanthropy execution laws, and Lupin gave the situation a face. James and Sirius saved their unfortunate friend from the execution blocks in their fifth year, and no one even got declassified. "Is it something you can talk about, or is it a secret mission?"

"They're all secret, Lily," Lupin said.

"Right," Lily said. "I suppose it would be silly to ask if I could help?"

"Oh no, not silly at all, I take help whenever it comes my way, especially from a talented witch like yourself. You were number one in your class if I remember correctly," Remus said. He stood and went to the nearest window to let in some air. The room seemed terribly stuffy all of a sudden.

"We both know you were number one and would have remained so if your condition hadn't been discovered," Lily said.

"What's meant to be happens. If I hadn't had to leave, you and James never would have become class pairs. When would you have learned to appreciate his unique charm? When would you have fallen in love?" Lupin smiled over his shoulder, and it almost wasn't bitter at all. "What are you doing back here without James? Is he okay?"

"I'm on medical leave, and James wanted me to visit his parents. His father is ill," Lily said.

Lupin's polite question asking after Lily's health never made it to his lips. The tree-line just visible from the window was alight with an eerie green glow. Only the darkest of magic radiated that putrid color. "Something is happening out there."

* * *

Standing at the center of the cursed circle, James tried to keep his attention focused on the sweating Lieutenant he was sharing his personal space with instead of the ring of grinning corpses. The wind was gone and a supernatural stillness had settled into the air. He wasn't wearing a time-teller of any kind, but the witching hour had to be upon them. Should they have run? Surely it was too late now to try and escape, but every instinct he possessed was ready to dash away, to Hell with the curse breaker's logic.

James sucked in a sharp breath. One of the corpses, the one Charlie had called Private Lewis, had winked at him. Then, like marionettes on strings the entire deceased party was moving, greeting each other. "Welcome to our party. I am glad you could join us. It was my hope that someone would remain close enough to talk with. It is hard to send a message if you kill everyone who hears it." The voice coming out of the dead witch's mouth was garbled and hitching, as though her throat wasn't functioning properly.

Flexing Private Lewis's death-stiffened joints with sickening pops, the creature rose. "I am Invidia, and I will be your host. Today we're throwing a dinner party to celebrate the death and rebirth of our companion Gluto. As he passed away in these woods at the hands of a dirty revolutionary, we thought a cleaning would be appropriate as a celebration." Invidia raised her nonexistent glass and the other corpses followed her lead. "Reapers rejoice. Rebels die."

* * *

A sandstorm raged just outside the tower of Erudio, but no wind or sand disturbed the inhabitants of the tower. Albus sat quietly behind his desk and he listened to James Potter's report. The young Commander was obviously exhausted, dark circles under his eyes left him looking hollow-faced shell-shocked. There would be no rest for him yet. He had told Albus his story three times now, and now he would need to listen.

"Sir, did everyone get out before the curse? As soon as Charlie and I made it to the new camp we were sent straight to you." James hadn't even been given a chance to send an owl to London to check on Lily. He had no idea what the curse had done or if London was a safe place to be. The worry was driving him mad.

"No, we lost several men and women, but not nearly so many as we would have lost without the quick evacuation you started." Albus paused before continuing his instructions. "Lily is fine, James. The curse killed rebels in the Misty Forest but it stopped at London's borders. Aside from Muggles who were actively helping us, none of them were hurt."

As soon as he registered that Lily was okay, James began interrogating Dumbeldore, anxious for answers. "Who are the Reapers? Are they demons or wizards?" James asked. "Why are they after us all of a sudden? We haven't sought any large scale confrontations with the empire in all the years I've been a rebel. Why after decades of ignoring us, is Turpin sending his enforcers to exterminate us? It doesn't make sense. What changed?"

"It isn't us that changed, but Turpin's strategy for dealing with us has. When we know what he fears so, maybe we will finally have a weapon to use against him." Albus pulled out a tightly rolled parchment and offered it to James. "One of the men we lost was Lieutenant Colonel Ferris."

James unrolled the parchment revealing a neatly stamped and sealed officer's commission. "You want me to take over what's left of the Western European forces. What do you want me to do with them?"

"I want you to keep them alive until I can find the answers I need. Are you up to the task?" Albus asked.

"Absolutely, but you have to do something for me as well, a favour," James said. "Find a way to keep Lily out of the line of fire, and safe. She won't quit the rebellion, but you have to have safer jobs you could set her. You keep her busy until you find your answers, and I'll keep your army alive if I can."

Albus offered James his hand and they shook solemnly. "Good luck," Albus offered. As James exited quietly, his mind buzzing with his new responsibilities, it occurred to him that Dumbledore hadn't answered his first question about the nature of the Reapers. Instead of wheeling around and demanding answers, James assumed the obvious, that Albus didn't know exactly what the Reapers were.

Standing atop his tower, alone with his thoughts again, Albus took out his ostrich feather quill and the special green ink that allow him to communicate with certain of his resources safely.

_Remus,_

_Are you still in London? If so, I'd like you to check in with an old friend, Lily Potter. She should be coming into town this evening. Please use her expertise to help you on your fact-finding mission._

_Best wishes,_

_A._

* * *

"Any word from your brother yet?" Harry asked. He dropped into a seat opposite Ron in the library and opened his Rule of Turpin text so he'd have something to pretend to read. "Hermione is still buried up to her ears in those moldy old books of hers trying to find an answer."

"Yeah, well I'm assuming that no news is good news for now," Ron whispered. "George is still really upset. He said he's been having weird dreams. They have this bizarre twin-bond thing, and he thinks the dreams are a bad sign." Harry arched an eyebrow skeptically and turned his page without ever looking at the book. "No really. There was this time when they were maybe four or five and George was flying on Dad's broom when he wasn't supposed to. Fred was three hundred miles away swimming with our other brother Charlie, and he screamed and sank like a rock. At exactly that moment George managed to fall off his broom. Fred felt George break his leg."

"Weird," Harry said. "So what kind of dreams is he having?"

"He won't tell me."

* * *

A middle-aged witch with long black hair and one pretty brown eye slouched low in her chair. Her other eye, her reaper-red eye was glowing with a dangerous fire, the black tattoo under it writhing as if trying to escape the fury of that red glow. "I didn't want to kill the lot of them all at once, stupid. Where's the fun in a mass killing? This way they will be scared as they should be when they face us. I know Gluto wanted to discard his old form for a newer model, but it shouldn't have been so easy to get himself killed. It hurts our reputation. Now maybe we've made up some lost ground."

A silver-haired man, returned her stare without flinching, his own reaper-red eye sparking. "Dear Invidia, you should consult me before you act. With some more planning, your playful curse could have been much more effective."

"I disagree, and I don't have to consult anyone. Consultation is a waste of time," Invidia hissed. "Are you afraid someone might forget that you're our leader, Saevio? Are we worried about appearances?"

Without preamble Saevio grabbed Invidia by the throat, his massive sun-browned hand almost circling it completely. "There is an unfortunate side effect to almost always taking the form of a female. They're very breakable." He threw her against the wall, and squeezed, occluding her windpipe. She didn't struggle for her breath or whimper. Invidia grinned even as her lips turned blue. Saevio released her before she lost consciousness and walked away. "I'd kill you but I know that's what you want. You envy Gluto his fresh body and want one of your own. You're afraid that Irritum will get her new form first and you can't stand it. What a pitiful vice you embody, envy, never satisfied, never at peace with yourself."

"The incarnation of wrath speaking of peace, that is a joke," Invidia hissed hoarsely. "You know you wanted to kill me. Is your rage chilling in your old age? Without your anger, you're nothing, less than nothing. Couldn't even kill me when I deserved it..."

Saevio chuckled and headed out the door. "Foolish child, hasn't even learned that wrath is most powerful when it is cool."


	8. Tripping the Light Fantastic

**Chapter 7 – Tripping the Light Fantastic**

History of the World Volume XI Chapter 17 The Rule of Turpin – Rewarding Power

_Elevation to the third tier of society was never meant to be a political achievement. Rather, elevation was meant to be a recognition of power and an invitation to alliance. Over time political leanings made their way into the process. To help level the playing field, Turpin masterminded the creation of the divination stones to identify those of his subjects with true exceptional power. No matter your political or family connections, if the divination stone determined your strength to be anything but elite, the third tier was and to this day still is forever beyond your reach..._

* * *

Another day dawned in which Severus had not even seen his own bed. Stifling a yawn he leaned low over the ream of calculations that proved the theorem his taskmistress Mabel had set him the evening before. Scrawled in his slanted handwriting, the answers stared up, simple and neat and perfect.

"Calculate them again," Mabel ordered. She snatched the scroll off his workspace, and stuffed it onto a pile in her arms. "Get there by a different route. Don't reuse this theorem's solution."

"Wait. Why do you need the same problem solved again a different way?" Severus asked. The mathematics Mabel kept throwing at him was complex and it was obvious that she had to painstakingly phrase the questions so that they were apples and oranges, rather than the true topic she was investigating. "That solution is correct and it won't change if I change my methodology."

"Maybe it won't, but I need a better answer," Mabel said. Sighing and obviously flummoxed, she settled into a nearby chair. The area of her workroom that she'd set aside for Serverus was neat as a pin, stark contrast to the chaos that lurked in every other corner of the room. "I have outlier problems, you see." She pointed to one of her heavily marked bell curves. "This would be much easier if you were third tier outright, and I could tell you what we're doing." With a conspiratorial grin she pulled her chair a little closer. "Can you keep a secret, Serverus?"

Snape almost laughed at that question. Could he keep a secret? Yes, but he wouldn't be able to keep hers. "I can keep a secret."

* * *

The line dividing the group home children from the wizard-raised had virtually vanished by the time Halloween rolled around. They all wore the same clothes, ate the same food, and read the same books. Harry was just beginning to feel comfortable in his niche in the class when the Halloween festivities were announced. Everyone had to wear their dress robes, and with a change of clothes the old lines reemerged.

Harry stood in front of the mirror, fastening his last button and tried not to sigh too dejectedly. The school issue robes were well cut and of the finest quality. Their only real flaw lay in the sickly purple colour used for accents. He was practically used to the first-year color scheme, but some of the other kids were getting away from the purple tonight. The wizard-raised kids had their own dress robes and dresses.

Draco, for instance, had a set of tailored black robes that practically screamed expensive. With his hair slicked back and his scar he looked positively wicked, at least that's what Harry heard Lisa Turpin say as she passed him and Ron without even a glance in their direction.

Managing to look lost and ill-fitted all at once, Ron snorted at Lisa's back. "Wicked? Please. He's vetoed."

"Ron, why are you wearing the school issue robes, anyway? Didn't your mum pack you three or four extra sets of dress robes?" Harry asked.

Ron just rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You assume that because she sent me dress robes that they're better than the school issue ones. I'll let you have a look but no laughing, okay." Over at his trunk, Ron scanned the room to make sure everyone was occupied and paying him no mind before he opened it. The monstrosity in antique lace that he presented almost cheered Harry up.

"They're awfully frilly," Harry said. Though he fought against it, he couldn't contain a sputtering laugh. "Sorry."

Ron stuffed the ugly robes back into his trunk and made a face at Harry's inability to not laugh. "I hear frilly was fashionable a few decades ago when my mum was setting her fashion sense."

"Either that or she doesn't like you very much," Harry choked out.

Ron punched Harry's shoulder once, then a couple times more for good measure. While he was pummeling his laughing friend, Hermione poked her head into the boy's dorm and headed over to Harry and Ron. She looked the perfectly presentable little witch in her purple dress with puffed sleeves and a calf-length skirt. She crossed her arms over her chest and surveyed Harry and Ron critically. "Have you seen the dresses the other girls are wearing, Susan and Padma and Millicent? You'd think they were twenty five and living in Milan with those clothes."

"You didn't even mention Lisa," Harry said. He nodded toward the girl and her diamond bedazzled frock that should have been completely out of place on an eleven year old. He could hear Hermione grinding her teeth in frustration. "Come on, you look nice. Purple is practically your colour."

"If purple is my colour then Lisa Turpin is a Muggle," Hermione said. She stepped forward toward Ron and his eyes grew big as though he thought she was going to flatten him. "Your tie is crooked." With a brutal twist she pulled it straight. "So why are you wearing the school issue robes?"

"Solidarity," Harry said, and his face was almost straight. "Right, Ron?"

"Yeah, solidarity," Ron grumbled.

Hermione looked at him, her expression midway between shock and disbelief. "Solidarity, really? How uncharacteristically noble."

* * *

Albus straightened his ornate red robes and brushed a floating Chinese lantern out of his eyes so that he could get a better look at the crowd. A wide variety of high-ranking witches and wizards were invited to the Halloween festivities for the Class I school. Many found other things to do with themselves, but this year's showing was reasonable. Sheriffs, governors, legionnaires, and even a smattering of third tier delegates, bothered to stop in for a sip of wine and a peek at the next generation of their peers.

The district's sheriff, Lucius Malfoy, worked the room systematically, his cool smile and elegant robes communicating more clearly than his voice how much he thought of himself and his place in society. He was most likely here for his son, in a round about sort of way. His son was nearly the top of his class. It looked good to the third tier when your powers bred true. Of course, Albus had heard a rumour that the youngest Malfoy had run afoul of his Dark Arts teacher early on and earned himself a Veto. That had to have rankled the good sheriff.

On the opposite side of the room with the grey-beards, a witch with a mass of white hair piled atop her head chatted amiably. Her name was Melinda Potter, a retired Public-Works Governor by trade and a socially active crusader by hobby. Albus didn't count her as one of his rebels but that was only because she worked in the open, attempting to fix a system that was fundamentally flawed. They were kindred spirits even though he dared not associate with her. He couldn't walk up to her and tell her how much he enjoyed her last position paper, or tell her that he'd seen her son recently and even given him a promotion in their little rebellion. Albus Dumbledore was too respectable to associate with radical-minded witches like Melinda Potter. He had to stay back and mingle with the safely stodgy educator crowd.

Albus didn't have the hands-on time with the students that he used to, and the miniature portrait composite of the class was his only point of reference for the first year students that would be attending. Smiling, Albus stepped closer to the composite and tried to match the students with the mingling parents.

Some were obvious, like the Malfoys or the Longbottoms, but others were more of a challenge. Albus tried to guess a potential parent for each student even knowing that a fair percentage of them were raised in the group home without parents. One of the portraits, a bright-eyed young man with wild brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses, caught his attention. If he hadn't recently had an audience with James Potter, the resemblance might not have struck him as remarkable, but Harry Green had to be a cousin to the Potters in some way or another. He could practically be James' son.

"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests, please join me in welcoming the first year students of Class I," Headmistress McGonagall called. Conversation around the room suspended and polite applause broke out as the students were led forward in a double line. After the applause had died away, McGonagall made a shooing gesture and they scattered into the room, those with parents heading for them post haste and those without heading to a wall so they could huddle together seeking safety in numbers.

While most of the first year students were glad to get out of the spotlight and let the upper classmen make their entrance. Draco headed into the crowd of adults apprehensively. He hadn't seen his father since everything had happened, not since before the sorting and his Veto. Maybe saying that his father would kill him for making the mistakes he had was an overstatement, but he was bound to be upset. Seeing his father again in a public place might help get through the initial part, the angry part.

Some kids might expect their father to embrace them at a reunion following several months absence, but Draco was just hoping things remained civil. He could hold his head up and sneer at the high-placed witches and wizards who were staring at his Veto. He had enough pride for that, but he didn't know what he'd do if his father lost his temper in front of everyone. How would he hold his head up then?

Lucius was chatting idly with a pretty third tier witch who seemed rather bored with her situation. Draco hung back waiting for the conversation to reach its natural end, and when his father was alone he came forward. "Father."

There had been no return letter after Draco wrote him about the Veto, nothing. His father's expression betrayed no emotion now. He gazed at his son dispassionately and in a perfunctory manner, examined the slash in his cheek. Gripping Draco by the chin he turned him one way, then the other. "Riddle never liked me, not since he tried to force that cow acolyte of his into my Sheriff position. He took that dislike out on you. Everyone knows it," Lucius said. "Wear this mark like a man. Never let it wear you."

His father was speaking just loud enough so that the witches and wizards around them could overhear his parenting, and Draco's stomach dropped to his knees. Why did everything have to be about impressing everyone else? His father's carefully rehearsed words of comfort did little to assuage his hurt, but they were helpful in another way. Draco had wondered where he would find the pride to face the people in this room after his father rejected him, but he understood now that even a number two son bearing a Veto had value, if only as a cross to bear in front of his friends. Draco's spine stiffened and he met his father's eyes easily. "Yes, father."

Across the room in a tight gang with the other group home kids, Harry and Hermione leaned against a wall and watched the drama playing out between Draco and his father. Draco had said his father was going to kill him, but their interchange seemed remarkably cool from Harry's perspective, too cool really. When you looked around the room at the other kids with their parents, there were hugs, physical closeness, and smiles. Harry had always wanted parents, a mother and father, but he didn't think he'd want Draco's parents, at least not his father.

"Chilly over there, isn't it. Almost makes you thankful you're an orphan," Hermione said.

"Hey, I'm not necessarily an orphan," Harry said. "I could have a pair of living Muggle parents out there. You don't know."

"Do you know how rare it is for a Muggle couple to produce a witch or a wizard? You really think there's a happy couple out there that had two, or have you forgotten about your little sister? The only way you have a living Muggle parent is if you and your sister have wizard fathers..." Hermione trailed away suddenly hesitant to complete the bit of logic out loud. Harry's cheerful smile was gone and his hands were curled into fists at his sides. Some Muggle girls who didn't have family, husbands, or a trade made their living the old fashioned way, and some of them had wizard clients. Those girls sometimes had two or three magically inclined children before their profession caught up with them. Girls like that rarely lived long healthy lives.

"Why don't you finish saying what you mean, Hermione? You obviously don't have any trouble thinking it," Harry said. He stared at her coldly, daring her to say those things she was thinking about his mother. She didn't speak though. She returned his stare, her normally sharp gaze wide-eyed and apprehensive. Harry still remembered his mother in a vague, abstract kind of way. He even dreamt about her sometimes. For her to suggest such things about the faceless warmth that held him in his dreams was the most offensive thing Hermione had ever said to him. "My mother loved me, and she was happy. Me and my sister weren't unplanned accidents that made her life more difficult. We were wanted. Whether she's a living Muggle or a dead Witch, she isn't what you think she is."

Harry straightened his robes. He nodded perfunctorily to the other group home kids and cut through them into the crowd. Hermione watched her best friend go, knowing full well that she should follow him and apologize. She'd just insulted the memory of his mother. He didn't have anything tangible to hold onto and she had to go attempt to mutilate his fantasy. Sometimes she was so stupid.

"Hermione, there you are," Ron called. "See Mum, Dad, this is my class partner, Hermione Granger. Hermione, this is my mum and dad."

Turning toward Ron, Hermione bit back every caustic comment that came to her mind. She'd caused quite enough trouble with her mouth tonight. "Hi," Hermione said. "Nice to meet you."

Ron's parents were exactly like she'd imagined them from what he had told her over the term. Mrs. Weasley was plump with rosy cheeks and robes that weren't even close to fashionable, while Mr. Weasley had a bright smile and kind blue eyes.

"I say, Ron has had quite a lot to say about you in his letters. Getting along better with the Flobberworms, are you?" Mr. Weasley asked.

Hermione bit her lip and refused to get angry. He had the quiet helpful air of a man with advice. "Ecology has been fine lately, thanks."

Ron stared at her, shocked at her calm response to his father's less than tactful reference to her Ecology issues.

"Arthur, please. This is not a night to be talking about school. They're here to celebrate and relax and maybe meet some new people." Molly turned and started applauding with the rest of the crowd. "That will be the fifth years. Come on, we need to see about George."

"They got a letter from the office of the Legion. Fred is apparently alive and well and enrolled in some specialized training that's too top secret for us to know anything about," Ron said. "They're really eager to let George know that Fred's okay."

"That's good news," Hermione said. Her voice cracked dangerously, and she pressed her lips shut, determined not to cry.

"So where's Harry? I want him to meet my parents."

* * *

The fountain outside was filled with fairy-lights. Their sparkle glowed through the gentle ripples of the water, illuminating the surrounding gardens for several meters in a waving many-coloured glow. It was cold enough outside that the party hadn't moved into the garden at all, and the display went largely unappreciated. Draco stared at the fountain without really enjoying the beauty in front of him. He was too wrapped up in his life and problems to absorb anything as abstract as a whimsically lit fountain. At least outside he could get away from the stifling press of humanity. He didn't have to endure the stares of the curious or the pity of his father's friends. Circling around for a nice secluded spot, he found the last person in the world he wanted to see.

Sitting with his head almost between his knees, Harry was staring down. Draco considered walking away now, before he was noticed. He fled the party looking for solitude, but he couldn't help himself. He couldn't just walk away from his partner and rival in a vulnerable moment. Getting the upper hand with Harry Green might actually improve his mood. "What are you doing, Green? Shouldn't you be inside, schmoosing your way to the third tier. They're going to think you don't like them." A pair of red-rimmed eyes looked up at him fiercely, and Draco took a step back.

"You really think I care if they like me? I don't need them," Harry said. "I don't need those politicians, the professors, Hermione, Ron, none of them. I don't need you either right now, Draco. You should go back in there. They threw the party so you could dress up in your fancy robes and hobnob with your parents and their friends. If they could have left the rest of us behind, they would have."

Draco snorted, enjoying the moment. Green's unending good cheer had begun to seriously wear on him. It was good to see him upset for a change. "You don't even need your friends anymore? Which one of them made you cry, Green? I bet it was your little girlfriend, the savage. I bet she did something really offensive. She strikes me as the type."

Harry had already shifted his weight to throw the punch before his mind even registered that Draco would love an attack. Draco would get his number one ranking, and Harry would be off to Class II before his nose had stopped bleeding. Fortunately, Draco hadn't expected a couple of taunts to earn a fistfight, and his instincts saved the both of them. When Harry swung, Draco backpedaled over a hydrangea bush.

Deprived of his target, Harry breathed heavily and stared down at Draco. "Don't call her a savage!" Hermione wasn't a savage. She was honest and blunt, but she was part of his family, the only family that really mattered. Parents that he would never know, living or deceased didn't matter, not really. Hermione mattered.

"You're lucky you didn't land that punch, Green," Draco said. He rolled free of the broken bush and came to his feet, brushing at his rumpled robes. "You would be on your way to Class II right now. Not that a number one ranking is going to do me much good anymore. I thought we had a truce partner. Does this mean the war is back on?"

"If you can't be civil to my friends, then yeah, the war is back on," Harry said.

"Those friends that you don't need?" Draco sneered at Harry's flushed face and shook his head pityingly. "The only thing I can't understand is how the divination stone could have given a confused hypocrite like you the number one in our class."

"You're still mad about that, aren't you? It eats you alive that I might be better than you, doesn't it?" Harry stepped up on the edge of the fountain and gestured broadly. "Someday, when I'm on the third tier, I'll be sure to look you up. Whatever you're doing on the second tier, I'm sure it will be very fulfilling."

First removing his cloak and his gloves, Draco turned to Harry an angry glint in his eyes. For an instant he was sorry that students weren't allowed their wands at this celebration, but then he changed his mind. Some battles felt better fought tooth and nail. "This may get me declassified, but I don't even care." With a kamikaze dive, Draco tackled Harry into the fountain.

* * *

"Come quickly! It's Harry and Draco," Milicent squealed. She didn't pause as she clip-clopped her way past the group home kids' corner of the room in her impractical shoes. "In the fountain, no less!" she added over her shoulder.

"Fon?" Ron mumbled. His mouth was stuffed beyond capacity with finger foods. Hermione didn't wait for him to swallow. She dragged him by the arm toward the gardens and the growing throng of people gathered there. Being among the shortest people there, they had to jostle their way through the crowd to the very front before they could see what was happening. She heard them though long before her eyes confirmed it.

Harry and Draco were half-submerged in the fountain, arms linked together like a pair of companionable drunks. They were singing off-key at the top of their lungs.

"I'm Henry the eighth, I am. Henry the Eight, I am, I am. I got married to the widow next door. She's been married seven times before, and everyone was, Henry, Henry!"

"Harry," Hermione called. "What are you doing?"

"Not Harry, Henry," Draco said. The two boys descended into peals of laughter as though this were the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

"Are they drunk?" Ron asked. "The bloke at the refreshment desk wouldn't give me any Firewhiskey."

"And well he shouldn't," Mrs. Weasley said. She thumped Ron lightly on the shoulder as though he should know better. "It'll be the fairy-lights that have those two going. Someone needs to fish them out, but they'll have a devil of a time not getting a good dose themselves the way those two are splashing around."

Hermione was considering heading for the fountain and helping Harry herself, when an adult finally took some initiative. An old man with a long gray beard came forward with his wand extended.

"Allow me," Albus said. "Accio fairy-lights!" With an almost giggly swirl, the multicolored lights broke out of the water and zoomed toward the watching crowd. Anxious not to become intoxicated, most of the onlookers fled inside. Hermione, Albus, and a handful of others stayed behind.

"Fairy-lights are only intoxicating if mixed with water. Otherwise they're just pretty," Hermione said to no one in particular.

"Quite right," Albus replied. He smiled at the bushy-haired girl who he recognized from her portrait in the class composite. That a first year student had already begun to amass that kind of trivial information was rather impressive. "Miss Granger, I recognize you from your portrait." Albus offered her his hand with a smile.

"Well, I don't know you, sir," Hermione said. She didn't take his hand. Harry and Draco had chosen a new song and had begun singing again. "Are they going to be all right?"

"Of course," Albus replied. "Some time and some sleep and they will be just as they were."

* * *

___Dearest James,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. After the green glow in the forest and the curse that followed, I was worried beyond belief. Your letter is the only thing that saved my sanity. You may as well know that you are in a lot of trouble. You lied to me to get me into London and safely away from what was coming. Don't bother denying it. Your parents got your letter after I came calling. To exact my revenge, as I promised I would, I have taken on a new mission. If it weren't so top secret, I might tell you who I'm working with and toward what ends, but I will have to leave it simply that I'm on an adventure with an old friend._

_You may write to your parents if you wish to reach me, as I will continue to call on them while I'm in London, but I may or may not remain at our house._

_Please be safe James. I will write when I can._

_All my love,_

_Lily_

Carefully folding the letter for rereading later, James tried to control his urge to climb on the nearest broom and fetch Lily back from this dangerous adventure she had hinted at. Dumbledore had promised to find something relatively safe for Lily to occupy herself with, and he'd have to trust that the old man wasn't double dealing him. James consoled himself that the phrasing of the letter was too playful for there to be any real danger. She was just taking her revenge for his patriarchal scheming with a pen.

Probably...

Still pondering the ambiguous details of Lily's letter, James was caught off guard when Sirius barged into his tent. "I heard it, but I didn't believe it. The crazy bat put you in charge of the lot of us," Sirius growled.

"Believe it. You are supposed to salute me soldier," James said. There were no salutes between them though. They embraced, Sirius clapping James hard on the back in congratulations. "I wasn't sure when your lot would be back in camp."

"My lot has been playing our old game," Sirius said. "There were some choice shipments moving through the South of France and our glorious leader requested my team's finesse. Of course, I've been spitting vinegar since I found out that you fellows had another Reaper run-in while I was tooling around a few thousand miles away."

"I don't know if run-in is the right phrase. They lobbed a long distance attack, and we ran for cover," James said. He hesitated to tell Sirius everything, that the Reapers sent their curse out of revenge, that they were celebrating Gluto's rebirth. "They remembered you and that you killed one of them."

Sirius went very still. "Did they? Well there are five more to get out of the way. Next time we have an altercation, we'll just have to make sure there aren't any Reapers left for reprisals."

"There may still be six actually," James said. "They said something about Gluto's rebirth. That was the Reaper you killed, right? Death may not be an ending for them."

"If death isn't an ending, how are we supposed to deal with them?"

* * *

Surrounded on all sides by mountains of dusty parchments, Lily blinked her abused eyes and squinted down at the document she was supposed to be skimming. When Remus invited her to join him on his information gathering assignment, she'd imagined something more glamorous and dangerous. A few years on the front lines and you got used to the excitement of it. This work of Remus' was mind-numbing.

"Lily, how is it coming along over here?" Remus asked. He poked his head around a particularly tall mound of parchments and smiled at her. "Find anything of interest?"

"Not really," Lily replied. Screwing her face up, she sneezed four times in rapid succession. "I assumed that top secret information gathering would be more action and less dust."

"It's a common misconception, but you have to start somewhere." Remus held up a partially disintegrated parchment and grinned. "We have a lead though, and we're hitting the road, or the sky at least. Have you ever been to South America?"

Lily couldn't help herself, she laughed. Had she ever been to South America? No, but the empire was under the impression that she'd spent most of her adult life there trying to stop the local Aztec government from practicing human sacrifices on their Muggles. "Yes and no. I haven't been, but everyone thinks I have."

* * *

Harry groaned and wrapped his pillow around his head. There was a terrible pounding between his eyes like a deranged horse trying to kick its way out from the inside of his skull. "I'm dying," he moaned.

"Serves you right," Ron said. "You played sing-along with Malfoy all night long. You don't know how close we all came to locking you two out for the evening, and letting you sing outside the girl's dormitory."

"Why didn't we do that?" Dean Thomas groused. "Someone should really have done something."

Harry peeked out from his pillow looking for Ron. Sitting on his bed with a book open in his lap, Ron did look tired, but Harry had no recollection of singing especially with Malfoy. "I don't sing," Harry whispered.

"No you don't, but you tried," Ron said. "Oh how you tried. Now get up. Some breakfast will make you feel better, and I'm hungry."

Cautiously, Harry removed the pillow from his face, and the lights had him wincing sensitively. "What happened to me? Did Malfoy do something to me?"

Ron shrugged. "Neither of you was in any condition to point fingers, but you were found in the main garden, splashing around in the fountain. Of course they stocked the fountain with fairy lights for the party, and that sent the two of you to happy-land where everything is cause for singing and laughing."

"Really?" Harry squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember, but the night was a fuzzy blank. Opening and closing his mouth experimentally, the rotten cottony feeling of his tongue left him a little nauseated. The thought of breakfast brought bile to the back of his throat. "I can't go to breakfast right now, Ron. If I apologize for the singing, can I just take a shower and go back to bed."

"Fine," Ron said. "But I'm not going to study group today. You can explain to Hermione about no one getting any sleep."

The shower was a good idea. Harry wandered in feeling like a zombie, more dead than alive, and after a half hour of hot water pounding on his head, he almost felt human again. The dorm was nearly deserted when he made his way back. Draco had returned, and was sitting on his bed. There were dark smudges under his eyes. According to Ron they both experienced the same magically induced high last night. Harry knew how bad the aftermath felt and he stopped by Draco's bed to recommend the shower. Draco was staring at a neat pile of black ashes lying on his coverlet. "Are you okay?" Harry asked. "The shower made the ache fade back a bit, if your head's still pounding."

"Do you remember last night?" Draco asked. "Any of it?"

"Not really," Harry said. "I mean, we went to happy-land via the fairy-light express according to Ron. Do you remember?"

"I remember fighting," Draco said. "I called you a hypocrite."

Like a peg finally falling into the right sized hole, Harry's memory clicked. "Then I implied I was better than you, and you tackled me."

"The happy-wave hit. Then you started the singing," Draco said.

Harry chuckled and nodded. "We must have looked like complete morons. We're never going to live this down."

"Good," Draco said. He brushed at the ashes at the foot of his bed, the remnants of the howler his father sent him. Lucius had already left the party before their display in the fountain, but he heard about it after the fact, and he was not pleased. Well Draco was tired, tired of being insufficient, tired of doing his best and never achieving what his father needed. "I'm finally through worrying about appearances."

Draco jumped down off the bed and rolled his sleeve up. "Have you checked your right arm?"

Frowning, Harry rolled up his sleeve. "Wicked...when did we do this?"

"I'm not sure. Some time before the happy wore off," Draco said.

A matching pair of coiled golden serpents were etched in spell-art on their forearms. Harry and Draco held their arms up so that the tattoos were next to each other. "Does this mean the war is off?" Harry asked.

"For now, but wars can be fun. Let's start one together sometime." Draco rolled his sleeve back down and cocked his head at Harry speculatively. "I promise to lay off your friends, if you promise to help me with my next war."

Harry nodded accepting that concession. "As long as it isn't against my friends, I'm in."


	9. Chocolate Frogs and Crimson Dragons

**Chapter 8 – Chocolate Frogs and Crimson Dragons**

History of the World Volume XXXI Chapter 23 The Rule of Turpin – When the Heart is Conquered Anything is Possible

_The heart is a much-debated organ. It can be argued that love, friendship, and family strengthen those who possess them. It can also be argued that those same things can be used equally as weapons to weaken. Our emperor has no living family. His concubines come and go more frequently than the seasons change. In his isolation he is at his safest._

_Yet he loves one thing, the empire. The only children he claims are those people he rules. The very ties of family and love that our emperor has shirked bind his true family to him. Men with children and wives don't want war or revolution. Peace and safety are their main goals._

* * *

"Ron told me what you did. You said you'd play war with that evil little toad?" Hermione stared at Harry with outright disgust etched on her face. "I thought I knew you. We were friends. I almost even trusted you a little."

"Were friends, past tense? Come on, Hermione. It's not that bad, really. Draco and I have to work together. If he wants a promise of a little assistance the next time he has a feud, what can I do but help. We have an understanding that if it involves a friend of mine then I'm out. Now, who isn't a friend of mine?" Harry grinned at Hermione as though his logic were perfect. "If I'm friends with all potential feuds, I won't ever have to go to war."

Hermione gathered her books up and glared down her nose at Harry. "Maybe you won't end up embattled with any classmates, but I can think of one fight he might involve you in. Draco hates Professor Riddle." Hermione tapped Harry's right arm where the spell-art was hidden by his shirt. "You get your own Veto, then you and your new friend will really match."

"Hermione," Harry groaned. "That's an ongoing war. He can't apply our agreement retroactively."

"You established that explicitly? Why do I doubt you? I'll see you at dinner, unless you're at war. Send word from the front lines if you can." Without looking back, Hermione swept out of the study room and slammed the door behind her.

Frowning at the closed door, Harry opened a book and started skimming. Hermione had a tendency to be a little negative, and she wasn't a fan of Draco, but Harry had an odd notion that maybe with a little effort they could all get along, coexist, and work in some semblance of peace. It was his job to make their situation work, at least that was what being number one meant to him.

"Thank God she's gone." Creeping out from behind a dusty bookshelf, Ron slid into the seat Hermione had just vacated. "I thought you two were going to talk forever."

"Why are you hiding from Hermione?" Harry asked. "Did you two have a fight?"

"As if that were unusual, but we did have an ugly argument about you this morning. Apparently, you and Draco's revitalized friendship and plans are entirely my fault. I mean how stupid could I be, trying to sleep while the two of you were high as kites with your wands at hand." Ron reached over and closed Harry's text. "If it weren't for my shoddy friendship you wouldn't have a spell-art tattoo, and Draco would be an enemy as Hermione is quite certain he deserves to be."

"That's ridiculous. Draco and I have been working things out for weeks now. And I like the spell-art." Harry rolled up his sleeve and flexed his arm so that the snake moved. "You should give yourself one, not necessarily this pattern, but one that you like."

"My mother would murder me if I started drawing on myself with my wand, but it is sort of nice. Can I touch it? Did it hurt?" Ron was already reaching toward Harry's arm when he rolled his sleeve back down.

"No you can't touch it. It just feels like skin, and I don't remember it hurting. Not that I remember much about Halloween." Harry sighed at his pile of texts. "I didn't get anything done last weekend because of all the drama. You know all those pre-winter-break exams? Hermione says we should be studying now, that we should have been studying for weeks." Harry dropped his forehead down on the stack of books he was supposed to read. "But I can't study anymore."

"I've been waiting for you to say that for a month," Ron said. "Come on, follow me."

* * *

Sitting quietly on her bed Lisa Turpin brushed at her hair with an ivory-toothed comb. Her yellow silk dressing gown dripped over the sides of the bed, falling like a golden river. She flipped her shiny black hair over her shoulder and abandoned her comb on the dressing table. A slip of paper, her quarterly progress report, rested on her lap.

The school system worked hard to perpetuate a system of constant competition, and everyone's report ranked them one to twenty in every class. Lisa scanned the lists less concerned with her own progress than with the boys in her class. She had a responsibility to her family to find a nice powerful logical wizard, spot him, bag him, and eventually marry him. Her parents had been drumming logic and mathematics into her since she could hold a quill, but she didn't have much in the way of natural ability with the subject. Unfortunately, her family had a role to play for the emperor that didn't include entire generations that found mathematics challenging.

Lisa sighed dramatically. Judging from the lists, the most likely possible mate for her was Hermione Granger. Unfortunately, she didn't swing that way.

"Lisa, what are you doing?" Draco asked.

Lisa pouted her lips at the slick young man and smirked. "I'm just looking over my progress report. You did okay in most classes I see. I'd pay to see your personal comments from Dark Arts class."

"It must be nice, not having to worry about any of it, knowing that you're headed for the third tier no matter what," Draco said. "My father wanted us to be friends."

"Every Wizard-raised kid here is at least under orders not to make me mad. Your father wanted us to be friends. What do you want?" Lisa asked. "I assume you have a reason to come visiting."

"Can I come in?" Draco hesitated over the threshold to the girls' dormitory.

"Enter foul boy. You have my permission," Lisa said. She moved her dressing gown so that Draco could join her on her bed. "Well?"

"Would you like to have breakfast with me?" Draco asked.

Lisa shrugged half-heartedly. "There's nothing I can do about your Veto, you know. The Turpin name was a gift from the emperor, but it isn't a blank cheque."

"I know, Lisa. Did I ask you to fix my problems? I thought I asked you to have breakfast with me." Draco smiled playfully. "Come on."

"Fine, I'll have breakfast with you, but I have to get dressed first. Out. Wait for me in the hall," Lisa commanded.

Showing no signs of bristling at Lisa's highhanded commands, Draco headed back outside without protesting. Lisa couldn't fix his problems, but she could help him fill out his army. There were two groups making up the body of Class I: the group home children with their undeclared leader Harry and the Wizard-raised children with their mini-empress Lisa. He was already halfway to unifying the class with Harry's concession to help with his next war. Now if he could just get Lisa onboard...things might get interesting.

* * *

In the school's second basement just past the statue of Knight Millard the V, Ron and Harry peered into the cobwebs looking for a secret passage. "How did you hear about this anyway?" Harry asked. "I mean a secret passage out of the school and into London? We're not even supposed to be anywhere near London."

"My brothers had a long talk with me a few nights before leaving for school. They wanted me to know how far you can push the administration without getting declassified and sent to Class II. Plus they wanted to make sure that someone in the first year knew how to break out of this dungeon when it all gets to be too stifling. As for us not being anywhere near London, the passage is magic of course." Ron seized a candlestick that wasn't dusty and grinned. "This is it!"

"Won't someone notice a couple of eleven-year olds wandering the streets of the city?" Harry asked. "I mean my group home is in London, but they kept us locked up tight."

"This tunnel is going to drop us off in new London, the nice side of town. As long as we stick to the shops there, we'll be fine. Students have been doing this for years." Ron pulled down on the candlestick and the wall swung open revealing a pitch-black cave. "I guess this is it." But he didn't take a step forward.

"Come on." Harry raised his wand and grinned at Ron. "I warn you now. I have no pocket money. _Lumos._"

With a light revealing the tunnel's plain gray walls and well-worn path, Ron's courage returned. "I said my family wasn't well connected. I never said we were destitute. I have enough pocket money for two as long as we don't get too extravagant."

"I have never walked into a shop and spent money," Harry said. "The experience alone should be extravagant enough for me."

When they reached the other end of the tunnel, Harry pushed at the door blocking their way. With a resounding squeak it opened into a sweet-smelling cellar. "Follow me. I've been to London before," Ron said. "We should be in Oyard's Pub. We'll get some snacks and find a spot to relax in. Do you like puffed creams, chocolate frogs, or snap jacks?"

"Chocolate frogs," Harry said. "What else?"

The pub wasn't terribly busy; the only other patrons, a couple of witches, chatted and giggled in a sunny booth. Ron climbed onto one of the stools at the bar and smiled nervously at the bartender. "We need a couple of Butterbeers, and do you sell chocolate frogs?" The burly man nodded. "Well, give me as many as my change will allow." Ron settled his money on the bar.

Harry helped Ron carry his goods to the outdoor café and they sat down at a table. He'd never had more than a couple of chocolate frogs at a time and Ron's change had afforded them nearly two dozen. "This much chocolate could put us into sugar shock."

"Nah," Ron said, already shoving his first frog down. "My big brother Charlie once ate thirty of these at one sitting, no problem." He examined his card. "Nadia DelPrince, never heard of her, an excellent addition to my collection."

"Thirty at once? Talk about excessive." Harry opened his first frog and checked out the card. "Emperor Turpin himself." The man on the face of the card seemed to be napping, his head tilted forward and his eyes shut. "Is this one rare?"

"Not really," Ron said. "Don't you collect them? I mean everyone collects them, right?"

Harry rolled his eyes at Ron and opened another package. "Yeah, that's really important in the budget at the group homes. Everyone there has extensive collections. It's unreal."

"I'm sorry. You don't have to be sarcastic," Ron said.

Harry shrugged and they opened packages in companionable silence for several minutes. After their treats lay in quasi-neat deconstructed piles, and their Butterbeers had dwindled to nothing, Harry met Ron's eyes and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry if I caused problems between you and Hermione. You two have had a hard time figuring out your partnership, and I didn't mean to make things worse."

"Eh, it isn't really fair to blame you. I'm avoiding Hermione more because of the quarterly progress reports than anything. Did you see where her name was on the lists? She never drops out of the top five, well almost never. I'm number three in this class. Why is she number four if she's that much better at all this stuff than me? I swear she's giving me an inferiority complex."

"The former Muggle is giving you an inferiority complex? That is funny, Ron. Hermione would appreciate the irony. You should tell her." Harry might have said more, but a procession was moving down the street. Hooded wizards and witches, black cloaks billowing about them dramatically, were leading a regiment of Imperial Soldiers. They seemed terribly out of place storming a sunny street and its bright shop fronts. "Who do you think they are?"

"I don't know. Maybe we should head back to school?" Ron said. "They seem serious."

"Wait. Look." Harry stood pointing toward one of the black cloaked wizards. As a group they had thrown back their hoods. He didn't recognize any of the other five, but the one with the bright red hair couldn't be mistaken for anyone but who he was. "Ron it's your brother, Fred."

"Fred?" Ron joined Harry staring. He shouted louder, "Fred!"

The Imperial soldiers stormed into the sweet shop across the street. They dragged an old woman shopkeeper out of the establishment. "For seditious crimes against the empire, Gertrude Lannigan, you have been sentenced to life imprisonment in the Saharan Dungeons. Do you confess your guilt?" one of the witches said.

"Confess? No, I'm innocent. Sedition? I'm not a rebel," Gertrude gibbered. She gripped her white apron and crouched low on her knees in supplication. "Please, have mercy."

"She isn't ready to confess," the same witch said. She turned to one of the other wizards and grinned. "Whatever should we do?"

"Gluto," the silver-haired wizard said. "Acquire a confession."

Fred broke from the group and he began casting at the old woman. "Crucio. Zoto. Crucio. Crucio. Zoto." The woman's screams soon drowned out the words of the curses Fred was casting.

Harry thought the woman would scream forever, but eventually she was only sobbing. And Fred was laughing. They were all laughing.

"Gertrude Lannigan, do you confess your seditious crimes against the empire, or need we continue?" the witch asked.

Through her jerky sobs, Gertrude managed to choke out an answer. "Guilty. I...guilty."

For the first time, one of the wizards turned so that Harry and Ron could see their face fully, and Harry took an involuntary step backwards. The entire left half of Fred's face was marred by an irregular black mark centered over his eye. That eye was glowing a fierce empty red. Ron dropped back into his seat heavily as though his knees had given out. The six wizards and witches replaced their hoods, and the Imperial Soldiers carried the old woman, Gertrude, away in their wake.

"What did they do to my brother?" Ron whispered. "Fred would never do something like that. What did they do to him?"

Shaking his head, Harry stared after the departing soldiers a sour taste in his mouth. "We need to get back to school."

"I don't want to go back to school," Ron whispered. "I have to talk to George if we go back to school, and I don't know how to tell him what we just saw." Ron let Harry pull him to his feet and lead him back through the pub and to the secret passage. As soon as they were safely back in the school, Ron grabbed Harry's arm and squeezed it aggressively. "That wasn't really Fred. It couldn't have been. We didn't see it right."

"It looked like Fred to me," Harry replied. "It looked just like Fred."

* * *

In the fifth year boy's dorm George was spending his Saturday in bed. Dark circles under his eyes bore testament to his exhaustion, but he wasn't sleeping. Sleeping had become nearly impossible over the last few weeks, since they took Fred. Everyone had tried to reassure him that his brother was alive and well and fine. Word had come down from the third tier and everyone was breathing a sigh of relief.

No one was listening to him. No one cared about his nightmares.

George tried to explain. Something terrible had been done to Fred. He dreamt about it every night. He dreamt of drowning, of burning, and of freezing. It wasn't his imagination, and it wasn't his fear. Fred was being hurt while his family was sitting around clucking their tongues and wondering what sort of training he was receiving.

Sitting through classes, taking tests, and doing homework, George was through with it all. After the winter break he had no intention of returning to school. Nothing could make him come back to the place that sent his brother into that unknown hell he dreamt about. He wasn't through with his parents either. If he had anything to do with it, his brother Ron wouldn't be coming back to school either. Charlie was off playing rebel, and George was ready to join the cause. Maybe along the way he'd be able to find Fred and free him.

Maybe.

George turned over in his bed and he spotted the pipsqueak at the door. Ron and his friend Harry were headed his way. "Hey, what are you doing in the big boy's dorm?" George asked. "You're liable to get hexed by an upperclassman for wandering up here."

Ron knew that he had to tell George what they'd seen, but his throat was constricted tight and aching. Looking at his brother's tired eyes, he couldn't find the words. He had just watched Fred, his twin, cast torture curses at a defenceless old woman and laugh about it. The twins had always been so close, so full of laughter. Their jokes usually involved taking the mickey out of their little brother, but Ron would let them torture him forever if he could make things go back to the way they were. "I saw Fred today," Ron choked out. "We went to London to have a break." Ron's vision blurred and tears leaked from his eyes. "Something was wrong with him, George. He didn't answer when I called, and he cast a lot of curses at this witch. There was something wrong with his eye. It was red and glowing...There was something really wrong with him."

"Red on black," George replied, his voice surprisingly steady. "I dreamed about the red, burning red. In my dream it's like burning and freezing and drowning all at once." Sitting up in bed, George started rummaging around for some robes. "He's in London right now? I'm going looking for him."

"I don't think he lingered," Harry offered. "They were arresting this witch and I think they took her to the Saharan Dungeon. I imagine they're long gone."

"Don't care. Have to try," George said. "If there's a chance my brother's in London. I have to go find him and help him."

"Okay, we'll come too," Ron said.

"You, little brother, are four feet tall. I've got this one," George said. Jerking his robe into place, he headed for the door. "Thanks for coming straight to me Ron. You did the right thing."

Gazing at the empty doorway, Ron frowned worriedly. "Maybe coming straight to George wasn't the best idea. I should have written a letter to mum or dad. What happens if George finds Fred? Do you think he can help him?"

"They're twins. They have a connection, you said so yourself. If anyone could help him, I guess George could. Besides we don't even know what's going on." Harry pushed Ron toward the door. "We need to get out of here before we do get hexed though. A couple of seventh years did a number on Neville and Millicent yesterday. A bad case of boils isn't going to help anyone."

* * *

One word could sum up Remus's first impression of South America, hot. From the moment he and Lily dismounted their brooms on the white sandy beach of the Aztec capitol, Tenochtitlan, he'd been sweating like a pig. "I can't believe it's autumn here. How can it be this steamy in November?" Remus asked.

A sheen of sweat shining on her forehead, Lily shrugged. "It just is, I suppose." A thick jungle stretched out ahead of them, full of strange animal sounds and odd rustlings. "So where is it that we're heading?"

Remus unrolled a map and pointed to a spot on the coastline. "We should be here and we want to get to the center of government, there, but we can't fly. They have an extensive free-roaming dragon herd."

"You don't think we could dodge a few hunting dragons?" Lily asked. "Come on. Let me Disillusion you, then you do me, and we'll be fine."

"Except that forty percent of dragon species hunt by scent, twenty five by sound, and only thirty five use sight to identify prey, while ninety five percent are aerial hunters," Remus said.

"You still turn into a textbook when you're nervous." Lily laughed and took another step toward the jungle. "I guess you don't know what these South America dragons hunt by? We can either risk it with a Disillusionment charm or we can head into that jungle on foot. Neither of us is James Potter on a broom, but we can do this."

With a nervous look at the jungle, Remus nodded. "You're right, okay, but we need to be careful. I don't much like dragons."

"Why Remus, here I thought you were a fearless mercenary." Lily swished her wand and wordlessly cast a Disillusionment charm on her friend. He shivered under what she knew was an odd sensation like being coated in a cool film of goop. "Hit me now."

Of course she didn't see the wand coming, but she was expecting the chilly spell when it struck her on the top of the head. "Let's do this." Lily mounted her broom, which then fell under the spell Remus had cast. While she could still see Remus's broom, Lily groped over and managed to grab his hand. "How good are you at synchronized flying?"

"We're going to have to hold hands to keep from losing one another up there? I like this less and less, Lily." Remus gripped her hand and straddled his broom. It was funny how some dragons, a broom, and a pretty girl could undermine his confidence, making him feel fourteen again.

"On the count of three head up to just over tree height," Lily said. "I'll take the lead. One. Two. Three."

From the sky, what had looked like an unbroken wilderness gradually gave way to patches of settlement. Villages broke into the jungle at regular intervals. No signs of agriculture were present, but occasionally Lily spotted people working amongst the dragon-hide tents. Apparently South American Dragons were a rather pretty coral pink.

Or maybe the sun caused the dried hides to fade, Lily had to addend mentally when they spotted their first hunting dragon. His scales were crimson tipped in gold. European Dragons were bigger; this specimen wasn't much larger than a good-sized cow. Lily heard Remus gasp and felt him pulling her backwards. "Stop. Be quiet. He isn't after us. Look." Sure enough the dragon was chasing a flock of gulls toward the ocean. His mouth gaped wide revealing three even rows of needle sharp black teeth. Using his wings as a net and his mouth to eviscerate, the dragon dropped from the sky, a half dozen birds captured for breakfast.

Lily couldn't see Remus, but she knew he hadn't been exaggerating his discomfiture with dragons. "Let's up this sightseeing pace we've been flying at. I'll take the lead," Remus said. He squeezed Lily's hand tighter and pointed them toward the nearest pyramid. They had to have dragon wards up protecting their central government, and Remus meant to be within those wards as soon as possible.

When they finally arrived at their destination, it was all Remus could do to refrain from kissing the earth. "Okay, remove my Disillusionment and I'll do you," he said. Once they were completely visible again, he led the way to the largest of the pyramids.

Lily thought that after all the time they'd spent planning and travelling, she would be ready for the interview they had crossed the ocean to conduct. Scaling the steps of Tenochtitlan's central pyramid, she realized that she wasn't ready at all. Lily tried not to focus on the blackened altars at each level. Anyone at all interested in Muggle rights knew about the Aztec pyramids and the ancient rituals enacted regularly on their steep sides. On average a Muggle was sacrificed every three days. Turpin allowed such atrocities under the guise of protecting another culture's religion, but Lily couldn't look at those stained stone slabs without seeing the face of her mother, her father, her young nephew. She and Remus were going to have to talk with the Aztec priests and maintain a civil dialogue. Lily stopped two steps from the entrance of the pyramid and turned to Remus. "I can't do this. I know we're trying to investigate a possible kidnapping, and I know these people may have answers, but you know what they do here. You know who they kill on those altars."

Remus stopped and nodded. "I understand if you can't come in, but you should maybe consider the people you're willing to talk to back in England. Most of the men over fifteen participate in the monthly werewolf hunt back home. Is it more civilized to kill Muggles or werewolves?"

"Point taken," Lily said. "For the record, I don't associate with werewolf hunters either."

"But you deal with them, talk with them, pretend you don't hate what they do," Remus said. "It's the same thing here. Just stay calm. If you can't, then let me handle it."

"I can be calm. I think." Lily stood straighter and glared toward the pyramid entrance. "Sorry for being so sensitive."

"Never apologize to me for that," Remus said. "If a few more people were sensitive about the little things like human sacrifice, it would be a different world."

Lily headed up the last of the steps and turned to Remus, before heading in. "It will be a different world. We're going to change it."

Remus walked forward to link his arm with Lily's. How was he supposed to maintain his cynical outlook on life when Lily could still spout her rebellion's ideals like she believed them? "Good luck with that."

Considering how warm it was on their continent, it was no wonder that the dress code was a little more lax than Lily was used to. The priest who had agreed to talk with them was wearing a simple white sarong-type garment and that was it. She refused to let the expanse of uncovered chest unsettle her. His bald head was painted red and he didn't smile. Lily thought he looked the part of murderous priest. Rather than spit on him like she wanted, she smiled her sweetest smile and bowed her head calmly.

Remus set a conch shell on the ground between them and clapped his hands over it. "Greetings, High Priest. We come from Europe, though we are not representatives of the Empire." The shell vibrated Remus' words in the Aztec language the moment he stopped speaking. "We would like to ask you some questions."

"You may ask, but if you have no Empirical authority, I may not be able to answer," the Priest replied. The conch translated his words back to English. "Don't offer me your names, because I won't lie for you if questioned about our interview."

"Agreed." Remus pulled a heavy gray sack out of his pocket and handed it to the Priest. The Priest opened the bag and scattered a couple of the yellow stones into his palm. "They repel malaria mosquitoes." Remus said. Amber wasn't easy to come by in this part of the world and the charms he offered were of reasonable quality.

After stowing his bribe, the Priest visibly relaxed. He actually smiled at his visitors. "You may ask your questions."

Remus nodded to Lily and she stepped forward to make sure the conch shell caught her words. "We have travelled a long way to find out what you know about a witch named Oscasia. According to some documentation we found, she paid handsomely for the quiet abduction of children on this continent for over a century. We have reason to believe she has shifted her operations back to Europe. What can you tell us?"

"I was sad to see Oscasia leave our land. She did pay handsomely for her children, but we scrape by now without her," the Priest said. "They restructured our education system when they came, Oscasia and her priestesses. Very strict rules were enacted. All children between the ages of eleven and nineteen were to be kept in school. They scoured the jungles and the tiniest villages. We weren't even allowed to train our priests in peace. I was educated in the empirical system from nearly a decade. Wasted time."

Lily bit back the sarcastic comment on the tip of her tongue, about learning to kill Muggles young. "Oscasia paid for abducted children. Can you give us any more details?"

"Yes. She liked them to have Muggle backgrounds, the stronger the better. The Reapers she brought with her all but chased every dissident north nearly to Quebec. Our lives were made much easier by the increased imperial presence, despite her school rules." A bright-green parrot fluttered into the room interrupting the priest. He checked the note on the bird's leg and shook his head. "It appears our interview must now end. When you return to your continent, you can tell the lady Oscasia that she is welcome in our land should she ever desire to return. Her gold and charms are missed."

Lily could barely wait until they were clear of the Aztec pyramid to vent her outrage. "That beast of a man is their religious leader. He was SELLING his people's children to that woman for God only knows what purpose. Just standing in the room with him made me feel dirty."

"It's hard to imagine anyone just selling children. Hopefully, this Oscasia isn't finding many willing child-brokers in Europe. We haven't heard about any specific abductions back home, yet," Remus said.

Lily shivered and shook her head. "It's just a matter of time as long as people like Oscasia are allowed to do what they want in the name of the Empire. We have to do something about this, about her."

"That's what your rebellion is for, right?" Remus knew that children were a delicate subject with Lily having lost two in a fire years earlier, but he didn't try to offer her comfort for that old loss. He wouldn't know how to begin, and it would probably just open old wounds that she didn't want to think about. "I expect that interview will be enough to satisfy the inquiry, but let's interview some regular citizens before we get back on our brooms."

Despite their best efforts, the regular citizens wouldn't even talk to the strangely dressed foreigners. The men and women made strange hand gestures and fled into their hovels.

"I want to get out of here," Lily said. "This isn't accomplishing anything."

With the bloodstained pyramid looming over them, and the uncommunicative villagers scurrying around them, Remus didn't even consider setting up camp inland. "The safest place to make camp is going to be the beach, which means we have to get back on the brooms and brave the dragons again."

"Come on, that dragon didn't even look at us twice. It was too busy chasing the cranes," Lily said. "I need to sleep, and I'm never going to be able to rest within sight of that altar of death."

"I know we have to cross the jungle again eventually. Just Disillusion me, Lily."

* * *

___Dear Oscasia,_

_There are currently five children registered in the rebellion's daycare system who would be of interest to you. The oldest is four. The youngest is fifteen months. If you decide to perform an extraction, please notify me, and I will get you the details we will need._

_Always your servant,_

_Peter_

"Pettigrew! Peter, are you here?"

Peter quickly folded the letter he had been writing and turned to the tent opening. The dashing young man in his doorway, James, hadn't been by for a visit in nearly a year. Seeing him again reminded Peter why he'd joined the rebellion. It had seemed glamorous to him back then, a Class III wizard with a chance to follow the Class I demigods off to save the world. Sirius and the rest never took him seriously. He wasn't in their school, in their Class. If his parents hadn't been working for the Potters, he never would have got mixed up in their plans. James always took pity on him, even when they were small, sticking up for him in the schoolyard, allowing him to tag along on his intrigues.

"Hello James, what brings you here?" Peter asked. "Shouldn't you be busy leading us all or something?"

"Actually, I received a letter from my parents today, and they included a message for you." James passed the folded parchment and glanced around Peter's messy office. "They're probably inviting you to spend Christmas with them like last year."

"It's very kind of them," Peter said. He peeked at the note and skimmed its contents. "Are you and Lily well?"

James smiled and nodded. Peter listened to him talk about inconsequential little things like Lily's charms and their temporary separation because of work. It was almost insulting the way James pretended that they were friends. Peter had left those illusions behind when his friend abandoned him in the Master Scheduler job behind a desk. Peter sat around doing his paperwork and made sure there was someone in daycare twenty-four hours a day, that there was someone on third shift wandering the perimeter. James and the rest went away on their adventures, and the only thing that ever brought any of them back to see him was the annual invitation to Christmas dinner.

Peter wondered absently if Melinda Potter still drank too much eggnog and serenaded her husband under the mistletoe. When they were kids it was an annual tradition. The Potters Christmas parties had always been fun, not that he'd attended recently. Peter hadn't actually gone to the party in six years, not since he switched sides and sold James' children.

"I can't really linger, Peter, but I hope you can get away this year. It's unlikely that Lily or I are going to make it, and I know Mum misses having family close to home," James said.

"I'm not exactly family," Peter said, "but I'll try to make it."


	10. Domestic Bliss

**Chapter 9 – Domestic Bliss**

History of the World Volume XXIV Chapter 7 The Rule of Turpin – The Rise and Fall of the Four

_The only rebellion to ever reclaim any portion of Europe from imperial control was lead by a council of wizards and witches: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Huffelepuff, Salazar Slytherin, and Rowena Ravenclaw. Their limited victories were short-lived. After a successful campaign that liberated Britain, France, and Sweden, their progress was halted. The emperor left his capital and led the force that stormed the rebel leader's headquarters in a move he has not repeated in the intervening centuries._

_Of the four only one rebel survived. Rumors abounded that the survivor betrayed his companions. Many consider that betrayal fact as Salazar was eventually elevated to the third tier, but no complicity was ever officially recorded._

* * *

Brandishing her trowel, Melinda Potter knelt in her flower garden and dug for bulbs. She'd been putting this chore off for weeks now, but if she waited much later in the season the ground would freeze, and she would have a lot more trouble reviving her flowers in the spring. Of course she could just wave her wand over the earth after the thaw and put the bulbs where she wanted them, but Melinda enjoyed doing this work the Muggle way. Her mother had gardened manually, and she'd taught Melinda the peace that could be found from digging in the earth with your own hands.

The tradition would probably die with her as Melinda had never conceived a daughter, and James wasn't the gardening type. Looking over her autumn-faded flowers, Melinda could practically see her son zooming around the rose bushes on his starter broom. She and Bartholomew had all but given up on ever having children when James made his appearance. What a gift her son had been. Melinda swiped at her eyes with her clean sleeve and smiled sadly. How long had it been since James had managed to visit? More than a year...too long.

A windowpane-rattling snore broke Melinda's introspective mood, and she turned an indulgent eye on her husband. His white hair was dancing in the breeze as he dozed lazily in a deck chair. Like his son, Bartholomew had never had patience for gardening the slow way, but he liked to keep her company. He would read her excerpts from the _Imperial Press_ while she worked. Today's issue must have been pretty boring to actually put him to sleep.

"Bartholomew Potter, wake up. If you turn into an old man on me at this late stage I will have to divorce you," Melinda said. When she was sure that Bart was awake enough understand her, she continued. "Read me Doherty's column instead of scaring the pigeons with your snoring."

"I don't snore," Bartholomew said. He yawned once for good measure, and resettled his bifocals. "Ehem, let's see...funding for Hippogriff racing...reinstate Veela trapping and pleasure houses...loosen dragon breeding guidelines…Sorry dear, still no mention of the curse in the woods."

Melinda dug at the ground harder. "It's been weeks. Doherty usually manages to slip a mention of the big things in past the censors eventually. You would think I was the only person who noticed the curse that killed three hundred Muggles and two dozen wizards who happened to be in the Misty Forest when it was cast." Melinda had long been a voice of the people, pointing out the empire's flaws and more egregious atrocities. She was tolerated as an eccentric with no real power, a voice they could point at when the regime wanted to appear tolerant of its critics. Melinda knew that her vocal political leanings could easily have caused her or her family to be killed. She'd even toned her criticisms down and backed off while James was young and living under their roof. Now that she had an empty nest again, Melinda had returned to her old ways, spitting venom and telling the un-garnished truth in her privately published position papers. "Do you realize that the only thing stopping that curse at London's borders was the five-hundred-year-old magic barrier? Does anyone care that a curse sanctioned by the empire was cast that recklessly?"

"The only way you can prove that it wasn't cast by the rebellion is through your illicit connection to that organization, our boy. Are you ready to out him as a rebel? They'd hang a wanted portrait right next to Sirius' on the corner. He'd never be able to visit, assuming they let us live."

"The fact that the Regime's writers haven't been filling every article in the world with reports of the Rebellion's terrorist action speaks for itself. They want everyone to know who cast that curse even though they aren't taking official credit. It's sickening." Melinda pulled a bundle of bulbs from the ground and tossed them toward her husband. Panting, she continued digging and talking. "No. One. Cares."

"Keep breathing, love." Bartholomew tucked his paper under his arm and rocked to his feet. "I'll make us some tea while you finish up there."

Really getting into her work now, Melinda had an impressive pile of flower bulbs ready for storage when her husband returned with the tea service. Instead of carrying the heavy silver he levitated it gently onto a wrought iron table. Sighing, Melinda set her trowel aside and quickly cleaned the dirt away from her hands and clothes with a wave of her wand. She sent the bulbs to the storage shed in a neat line floating across the yard.

"Well, how many lumps today?" Bartholomew asked whilst shovelling a half a dozen sugar cubes into his cup. Melinda varied her sugar intake with her mood, and he knew better than to try guessing her requirement on a gardening day.

"Three," Melinda said. Sipping at her beverage, she smiled at her husband. "Maybe we should join the Rebellion. Then maybe we'd get to see our son from time to time?"

Bartholomew grunted and shook his head. "If we were going to cross that line we should have done so a few decades ago. I'm too old to crawl around in the shrubs wearing invisibility knickers. And you can divorce me over it if you must."

A series of melodic chimes saved Melinda from having to respond. The enchantment on the front door announced arrivals with various tunes depending on who was knocking. Men were a lower octave, while women were tinkling notes. Regular visitors like the charm peddler were a consistent mundane bong, while strangers received more intricate announcements. But the special chimes like the one playing now; well they were a warning. "The door doesn't know who it is, and it's worried," Melinda said.

"Stay put," Bartholomew ordered. Gripping his wand surreptitiously in his pocket, he headed through the house and peered out of the spy hole. The dotty-looking grey bearded man on his front step hadn't visited in several years, not since James almost got himself declassified in his fifth year at school. Bartholomew pulled the door open and smiled uncertainly. "Governor Dumbledore, please come in." High placed governors didn't, as a rule, visit. It was political suicide to come calling at the Potters without a very good, very defensible reason.

"Why, thank you." Albus strolled forward into the entryway, shook Bartholomew's hand and gazed lazily about the room and its portraits. He waved at the portrait of a wild-haired wizard who was grinning out of a windy landscape. "Reynold Potter, he taught me Potions."

"Yes, I'm sure he did," Bartholomew said. There were rumours that Albus wasn't dealing with a full deck anymore, that he had slipped over the line from eccentric to senile. "What can I do for you? We were just having some tea. Would you like to join us?"

"Tea would be lovely," Albus said. He let Bartholomew lead him to the garden where he made a polite bow to Melinda. He gestured to the orderly line of floating bulbs making their way into the storage shed. "Doing a little gardening, I see."

Tea shooting into her nose, Melinda sputtered and coughed disgracefully. Of all the people she had thought might be at the door, Albus Dumbledore hadn't even crossed her mind. At least it wasn't the Legion come to cart her off to a prison province like the Sahara or Siberia. She'd been half expecting them for most of her life. "Good afternoon, Governor Dumbledore," Melinda said. "Please sit and have some tea. Do you take sugar or milk?"

"Both, thank you, and please call me Albus." Settling onto one of their deck chairs, he managed to look at home and comfortable, despite his voluminous, intricately-embroidered yellow silk educator's robes. The three of them sat together in slightly uncomfortable silence, as Albus sipped his tea. "I should apologize for dropping by unannounced, but serendipity, in the form of a faulty broom brought me to your street. I find that when serendipity is playing her games it's best to follow along and let her have her fun."

"Serendipity brought you here? Did she have a good reason? You're an important man; there could be political repercussions for having tea here," Melinda said.

"Politics?" Albus asked, feigning confusion. "I stopped worrying about politics a long time ago. We old folks are supposed to leave the political struggles to the children, or hadn't you heard?"

"I tell her that everyday," Bartholomew said. "Does she listen? Retirement is about the garden and the grandchildren..."

"How many grandchildren do you have then?" Albus asked. "I don't remember an announcement in the _Imperial Press_, but I don't always notice those things."  
_  
Two._

None.

With a loud clink, Melinda settled her cup on the table too forcefully, and its delicate handle snapped off. She could fix the family china with a wave of her wand, but some things were frustratingly unfixable. Because of their life choices James and Lily had lost her grandchildren. Harry and Isobel were born in the woods and killed in a fire without any record of their existence ever being officially recorded. As far as society and virtually everyone she knew were concerned, she'd never had any grandchildren. She couldn't have a service for them or mourn them openly. "Actually, we only had the one son and he's been rather slow about providing those grandchildren. So, until he does, I have too much extra time in my retirement to completely forget about the politics." Melinda didn't acknowledge her husband's apologetic smile. He knew better than to bring up anything as painful as Harry and Isobel casually in mixed company.

"I see," Albus said. Seemingly oblivious to the sudden tension between his hosts, he took another long sip of tea and settled his cup much more gently onto the table. "I suppose it's time I got to the point of my visit. Melinda, I've been a fan of yours for several years now. You write with great flair. I particularly enjoyed an article you wrote a few years back, something about the local Druids, there was an impressive string of alliteration, very catchy."

"You need something alliterative written?" Melinda asked. "I don't really take commissions these days."

"This isn't a commission. It's a proper position," Albus said. "I'd like you to write a column for the _Educator's Newsletter_. It's a monthly publication with very a small readership, and there would be almost no salary."

"Be careful. He's trying to lure you in with empty promises," Bartholomew said. Was the man really senile or was this a complicated game? Was the empire finally trying to give Melinda enough rope to hang herself or was Dumbledore just trying to be kind in an oblivious befuddled way?

"You would let me write a column with topics of my choosing in your weekly publication?" Melinda couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. It was one thing to write and privately publish her position papers, but a weekly column in an accredited paper, however low the circulation, would be a hundred times better. There had to be a catch to this generous offer.

"You can pick the topic as long as it's sports related. Most of the articles have been on Quidditch in the past, but I was hoping you'd be able to find a fresh angle to the column. No one seems to care about the classic sports like Synchronized Team Flying or Underwater Gillyball." Albus sighed as though the neglect of such sports was a tragedy. "Are you interested in the position?"

"A sports column? I'm really not a sports writer," Melinda said. "I don't even follow Quidditch."

"She really doesn't," Bartholomew said. "What is the purpose of a Bludger, dear?"

"Bludgeon is what I'd like to do to you at times." she answered quickly. "So I imagine there is some beating involved."

"I thought you said she didn't follow the game?" Albus asked, his eyes twinkling merrily. "Please, don't answer now. Think about it. Send me an owl when you've decided."

Senile? Bartholomew stared at Albus suspiciously. The man had an agenda. He'd bet his last galleon on it. People with unspoken agendas bothered him. They weren't trustworthy. "Well, retired people don't generally take positions, do they?"

"I'll think about it," Melinda interjected. She lifted the pot of tea and gestured to Albus's cup. "Would you like some more?"

* * *

Whilst an enchanted basin of steaming water floated across the washroom, Remus soaked his aching bones in a spacious copper bathtub. The basin's fresh hot water washed another wave of warm relief through him. Brooms weren't ideal for activities that involved travelling thousands of miles. A few hours straddling an unpadded broom handle, and Remus was ready to fork out the extra galleons for a nice Indian-weave deluxe carpet. If he had the extra galleons, he'd fork them out. Or maybe he would just have to work on his Cushioning Charms? Surveying the tidy guest bathroom of Lily and James's home, Remus tried not to feel jealous that he couldn't hope to own property or a home or even hold a proper job.

Things could always be worse. He could be in an imperial dungeon awaiting the next full moon and the monthly werewolf hunt. If it weren't for his friends, people like James and Lily, he would have already lived that horror at the ripe old age of sixteen. Besides, it wasn't like they were enjoying the comforts that the empire afforded them. Were James and Lily basking around in their lovely home working at imperial jobs? No, they lived out there like vagabonds, fighting the good fight. He had no right or reason to envy them.

Yet he couldn't quite stamp out the green glimmer of emotion.

The now empty basin hovered at the ready awaiting his orders. Did he want more hot water? With a sigh, Remus waved the bit of pottery away. He couldn't lounge about in the bath for the rest of the day, as much as his tired bones would enjoy it. Remus stepped out onto the cool slate tiles and folded himself into a large woolly bathrobe.

He stared at his haphazardly darned excuse for clothes and decided to attempt a few more repairs before getting dressed.

"Lily, do you have a decently enchanted sewing kit?" Remus called. He headed out into the hall. "Lily?" Pausing to cinch his robe tighter, Remus started downstairs. "If I were a sewing kit, where would I hide?"

"Third drawer on the right in the kitchen," Lily said. She headed across room and took Remus's clothes from him. "Oh, just let me. You're obviously not very good at this. There's a difference between looking like a Muggle and looking like a homeless Muggle."

Remus surrendered his clothes and followed Lily to the kitchen. While she settled down with his mending, he started putting together some simple fare for dinner. With the smell of stew filling the house and Lily curled on a chaise longue sewing, Remus could almost pretend that the scene of domestic bliss was his, that this was his home, his wife, his life. He could almost pretend that there wasn't a full moon in eight days.

"So, what do we do now?" Lily asked. "I mean we know that Oscasia is a child stealing villain, but we don't know anything else."

"Well, now that we're back in Britain we'll have to get down to the grit of this mission." Remus set the stew to simmer over the fire and joined Lily. "Oscasia has most likely already started assembling kids. We need to figure out who and why."

"I wonder why she came to Europe after spending more than a century in South America. I wonder what she wants." Lily shivered and looked up into the fire. "If she's already assembling children, you would think there would have been some outcry. Can you imagine someone not saying anything when their child is taken away?"

"It happens every day. The empire takes children from Muggles at will, and no one even cares. It's all about what you're used to, and what you expect." Remus flourished his hands and produced a flower. "That's a Muggle trick, sleight of hand, no magic involved. What you see isn't always what you get."

Lily took Remus' flower and sniffed it briefly. "The conscription of the Muggle children has been going on forever, but it couldn't happen to wizarding families. The Muggles can't do anything about wizards taking their children, and they know better than to complain. Wizard parents will notice when their children are kidnapped by a malevolent third tier witch, and there will be an outcry when Oscasia starts her games in earnest here."

"You may be right," Remus said. "I just seems that she's been here a long time. Why hasn't she started?"

* * *

The Headmistress's office wasn't an unfamiliar place to George. It was a warm room, despite its size. Floor to ceiling tapestries buffered the cold stone walls, and a bright fire perpetually burned in the room's large fireplace. He and his brother had managed to receive at least one talking-to a term since they started school. Headmistress McGonagall had threatened to declassify them on more than one occasion but they never quite crossed the line that would force her hand.

"Well, Mr. Weasley, what do you have to say for yourself?" McGonagall asked. "Three days you were wandering the streets of London. What did you think you were doing?"

George shrugged and stared at the headmistress's desk rather than the woman behind it. "My brother was in London. I was looking for him."

"Your brother is being trained in the Legion, from what I understand. Why would you think he was in London?" When George didn't answer, Minerva sighed deeply. The boy was obviously exhausted, dark smudges under his eyes and a defeated slump to his shoulders. "After everything we've been through, all the trouble you and your brother have got yourselves into over the years, I hate to declassify you over this. Considering the extenuating circumstances, I've petitioned for a milder punishment, but you can't afford to step another toe out of line, Mr. Weasley. Do you understand?"

"I understand," George said.

Minerva stared at her student with no small amount of pity. He was a shadow of the vibrant troublemaker she was used to scolding. They were twins, yes, but a little separation shouldn't be so devastating. "George, what can I do to help you? You know that Fred is all right, don't you?"

George finally met her eyes. He leaned forward in his chair, and gripped her desk's edge. "Fred is not all right. You let them take my brother, but you don't even know what they're doing to him, do you?" George stood and shook his head disgustedly. "Can I go back to my dorm now?"

"You can go," Minerva said. Her voice was steady but she was shaken. It was true, she let Oscasia and her priestesses take Fred Weasley, but it wasn't something she could have stopped. She had no power to defy third tier witches. George's accusing stare said otherwise. She was the adult, the one with the power, and she was supposed to protect her students. "Mr. Weasley, I'll try to find out where your brother is."

"You don't have to do me any favours. I'll find my own brother," George said.

Minerva watched her door swing slowly shut after George's surprisingly quiet exit. No slammed doors, no screaming, he was showing more maturity than she would have expected given his age and his apparent anger. He was serious about locating his brother, but it wasn't safe. She couldn't protect Fred, but she could keep George from diving off a cliff after him. They would have to tighten security. She would have to close the passage to London that was traditionally left open through benign neglect. The passage to London normally served as a pop off valve, allowing frustrated and exhausted students to escape from their school from time to time.

Well the students would just have to find other ways to let off steam.

Minerva walked across the office and scribbled a message onto a tarnished oval mirror. _Requesting a conversation with Albus Dumbledore. Available? _After several moments, a reply appeared. Available. Normally, when Albus's face appeared in the mirror, it was accompanied by a warm greeting or smile. Today, loud girlish shrieking was apparent in the background. "Good evening, Minerva. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Minerva caught snatches of the shrieker's complaints. "Political suicide...might consider his subordinates...completely senile..."

"Perhaps there would be a better time to talk. When you don't have so much company?" Minerva asked.

"That's just Percy, my executive assistant. He isn't very pleased with an appointment I made today, seems to think I might have tarnished my reputation. He was just leaving, weren't you, Percival?"

"Sign The Papers On The Desk," Percy said. He accented every word as though he were communicating with a toddler. "I Am Going Home Now...before I completely lose my sanity."

Dumbledore smiled and nodded absently. Though he could be annoying and condescending, Percy was the perfect assistant. He wasn't overly perceptive of others, but he was painfully conscious of his own position and things that affected his position. Albus could count on Percy to keep the entire staff up to date on exactly how senile he wanted to be perceived. It was convenient having a narrow-minded superficial gossip at hand. "What can I do for you, Minerva? We should be alone now."

Minerva could feel her eyebrows rising, but she refrained from commenting on his choice in executive assistants. "I lost a student for three days, as you know. George Weasley was out looking for his brother Fred. By any chance do you have an update on him? I think some solid information or, better yet, some contact might help George's peace of mind."

His smile fading a degree, Albus shook his head. "I'm afraid there's nothing for me to report. The witch Oscasia took him as she has every right to do. She needn't report to you or me or anyone about her use of Fred Weasley."

"I'm aware of our rights. You're telling me that you don't know anything about it. I have to take care of these children, and I'm afraid George is going to do something drastic," Minerva said. "Can't we find a way for him to talk with his brother?"

Sighing deeply, Albus abandoned his smile altogether. "If you have any more trouble out of George, send him to talk with me, and I'll try to help."

* * *

**Author's Note: **

He may not be a Weasley, but Percy has a cameo. I couldn't resist.


	11. Thirteen Days of

**Chapter 10 – Thirteen Days of... **

From the Writings of Melinda Potter – August 8, 1964 – You Could Learn a Lot from a Muggle

_  
I want to start this article by wishing you a Merry Christmas. Don't know what that means? Well, you're missing out on a special occasion on the Muggle calendar. Once a year, Christian Muggles and not a few of your fellow wizards and witches come together in a celebration of their faith and family that I can't help but envy. Actually, I'm through envying it. I've cancelled Solstice at my home this year. We're having a Christmas party, and I'll tell you why...

* * *

_

**  
Ten Days Until Christmas:**

A young girl with straight brown hair and unremarkable brown eyes sat at a children's play desk, but she wasn't using the enchanted blocks to build anything. She was using a coloured quill to write a letter. Her words slanted down across the unlined parchment creating a lopsided orange missive.

_Dear Harry, _

It snowed this weekend. Me and Joey made a snowman. Willy and Doug and Amanda tore it down. I said you would hex them forever when you came home. Think of something good.

Are you coming home soon? They give you a break for the solstice, don't they?

Isobel paused and read back over what she'd written so far. She'd already had to start over twice because she didn't like the results. It wasn't a bad letter, she decided, but it didn't yet say what she wanted it to say. When Harry left for school, she hadn't said goodbye. Isobel told him that she hated him for leaving and that she hoped he went to school and never came back. She'd felt justified at the time. He was abandoning her, but now she just wanted her brother to come home and visit her.

_Joey is a good friend, but I miss you a little I guess. _

Love,

Isobel

Sealing her letter, Isobel tried not to feel pitiful, dejected, and wronged by the world. But nothing was ever fair. Harry was at school having fun, and he probably hadn't even thought of her since he left. He probably thought she was the biggest baby in the whole world. That was what he'd called her when she'd been throwing her tantrum on the day he left, the biggest most annoying baby in the whole world.

One of their carers dropped a pile of blankets in the room, and Isobel scuttled after her. "Wait! I need help." The harried woman stopped long enough for Isobel to present her letter. "My brother's in school. Can you help me send this to him?"

**

* * *

**

Nine Days Until Christmas:

The Weasley house had been many things that Ron could remember; loud, cluttered, on fire... but it had never been particularly empty. Between Charlie, his parents, and the twins, the house had always seemed one room too small. When he and George stepped through the front door and Mum didn't envelope them in a series of hugs, when the smell of dinner didn't fill his nose or set his mouth watering, Ron got a sick feeling in his stomach. Something was wrong.

"We need to talk, boys." Dad appeared in the archway that led to dining room, and waited for them to follow him. "Now, I want you to sit down and not panic." Ron felt his heart speeding up as his father nervously wrung his hands. If they weren't supposed to panic, why was he so scared, and where was Mum? "It seems they've enacted some new sterner laws regarding truancy. George, your three-day absence from school was not received well. I don't want you to blame yourself. Who could have known how serious the empire has become about these things?"

"What happened? Where's Mum?" George asked. "Did they do something to Mum?"

"Your mother's fine. She's just been taken to a prison facility in... Siberia. It's only for three months, a month for every day you were missing." Arthur's gaze seemed unfocused and lost. "I tried to get them to take me instead, but the Imperial Guard was adamant. Mothers are more effective they said. As if you wouldn't have got their message just as well... Boys love their fathers too."

"Mum's in prison? How long has she been there? Why didn't you write and tell us?" George shouted. "We have to go get her."

Ron was glad that he'd taken a seat like his dad had wanted. He had the strangest light-headed feeling. George was shouting, and Dad just sat and there listening. "Stop it," Ron said. When George continued shouting as though he hadn't heard, Ron screeched as loud as he could. "Stop screaming at him when this is all your fault!"

"My fault?" George said. "It's... I know it is." Dropping back into his seat, his anger and strength rapidly draining out of him, he grimaced and buried his face in his hands.

"It isn't your fault," Arthur said. He seemed to have broken out of his daze. "It's no one's fault. But boys, from now on you're going to have to stay in school, no more disappearing. Do you understand me?"

So much for his plan to join the rebellion immediately, George couldn't leave his parents to these kinds of repercussions. He tried not to imagine what the prison his mother was being held in had to be like. Was she alone, cold, scared? "I'm sorry, Dad," George said.

"Quiet now." Arthur moved his seat around and squeezed it between his sons. He wrapped his arms around the both of them and held on tight. "It's all going to be all right. Your mother will be home before you know it."

**

* * *

**

Eight Days Until Christmas:

The first snow of the winter season didn't come until after most of the students had left school for their holiday. Harry sat at one of the dorm's windows and stared out over the whitewashed landscape. The group home children didn't go anywhere for the holidays. It was supposed to be a treat for them, getting to spend the break at school with its spacious dorms and plentiful feasts. Unlike most group home children, Harry did have something to miss back at the over-crowded shanties that they'd grown up in. He had a sister, Isobel. They would be spending the holidays apart for the first time ever. She wrote him a letter in her still-childish blocky scrawl asking if he could come visit, and he hated that he wasn't allowed. They'd even closed the passage to London since George's great escape, so he'd have a hard time staging his own breakout.

"What's wrong with you?" Hermione asked.

Jumping slightly at the unexpected intrusion, Harry turned. Hermione could be quiet as a mouse when she wanted, sliding through the shadows like a thief. Her father was a trapper, and you had to learn to be quiet when hunting, at least that's what Hermione claimed. Quickly folding the letter from Isobel, he shrugged. "Nothing's wrong. I was just thinking, I guess."

Hermione stared at him for a long moment, and Harry got the distinct impression that she didn't believe him. "Right, well, they posted a signup sheet in the great hall. They're having three holiday parties, and you have to pick one: Christmas, Solstice, or Druidic Black Mass. I guess that covers the major religions plus a nice general Solstice party for everyone who doesn't fit in the big two."

"Your family is Christian, isn't it? I guess you'll be heading to the Christmas celebration," Harry said. "Can I come? I don't think I'm up for a Black Mass. Drinking goat's blood is overrated. We won't have to sacrifice anything for Christmas, will we?"

"No, we won't be killing anything," Hermione said. She glared at Harry, suddenly annoyed. He could be so infuriatingly... agnostic and so middle of the road about everything. He didn't want to drink goat's blood, so the Druish Black Mass was out. He'd come to a Christmas celebration as long as there weren't any sacrificed creatures. Sometimes Hermione wanted Harry to come off it and commit to something, show some passion, prove that he believed in anything. "People call me a savage, but I wonder, is it civilized to have faith in nothing?"

"I see, so I have to convert to hang out with you now?" Harry said. If Hermione didn't want him at her Christmas, he would find his own diversion. "You know, most everyone celebrates the solstice. I bet it's... I bet they have a great party here."

"Harry, I didn't mean you had to convert. I just wish you'd take some of it seriously. There are at least three hundred reasons not to attend a Black Mass, only one of which involves not drinking goat's blood." Hermione pushed Harry into the window seat and settled next to him. "We're friends, right? You're the only person in this whole crazy place that I want to spend Christmas with. I know there are things going on in that head of yours even though you refuse to admit it. There's a reason you've been moping around for instance, even if you won't tell me about it."

"I'm not faithless," Harry said. He cast a furtive glance at Hermione. "I'm just undecided about a lot of things. As for my supposed moping, I've really been thinking."

"Thinking about what?" Hermione asked.

Shrugging, Harry unfolded the letter Isobel had sent and handed it over. "Any ideas how we might make it to London before the holiday is over?"

**

* * *

**

Seven Days Until Christmas:

Dozens of layers of maps covered James's desk. Each map represented hundreds of soldiers and the plans that would determine their immediate safety. They were all depending on his judgement. The magnitude of his responsibility was overwhelming if he let himself think about it. This wasn't a game of wizard chess where you put the pieces back together when it was all over. The pieces had names and faces and families. He touched a red dot on the topmost map and half-smiled. That was Sirius's game piece. He should be back from his current mission soon, assuming everything went well.

A series of gentle taps at his door caused James to look up, and a stocky redhead entered. "What can I do for you, Charlie?" James asked.

After his abrupt promotion James had had to assemble a support staff quickly, but he couldn't just pull his most trusted friends and compatriots from their already important positions. When trying to make his staff work, one of the names that came up was Charlie Weasley, the fearless, fast-thinking curse-breaker he met rather recently on the job. So far, he was making an excellent Executive Officer.

"Afternoon, sir. We need you down at the meeting tent. There's been a complication with the Dog Pack's last mission. They're back, but things didn't go as planned." Charlie held the door open. "It's not pretty."

James felt his stomach lurch as he rose quickly. What could have happened? It was just a simple snatch and grab to fill the commissary. Surely, they hadn't run into Imperial resistance? Surely, they hadn't run into the Reapers again? He was prepared for almost anything behind the tent flap that Charlie pulled open for him. The Dog Pack, with Sirius at their centre were clinking full bottles of champagne. It bubbled out of the bottles in a variety of colours, pink, purple, gold, and green.

James turned to Charlie, a confused frown on his face. "I thought you said that something went wrong?"

"I said that everything didn't go as planned," Charlie clarified. "The shipment they waylaid was headed to a Solstice celebration in Paris. The cooks in the commissary aren't sure what to do with the snails, but the men seem pretty clear on the best use for the champagne. The holiday shift rotations have started, and you're on leave starting today. Your staff has the helm, sir. If you try to come back to the command centre in less than seventy two hours, you will be instantly Apparated to the Swiss Alps every time you try."

"This is insubordination," James said.

"Actually this order came from higher up than you," Charlie replied. "Enjoy the break, sir."

**

* * *

**

Six Days Until Christmas:

Sitting cross-legged on the large plush rug in front of the study room's fire, Harry and Hermione listed possible escape routes. "Okay, so brooms are out because you aren't going to fly something that you've never even had a class in." Harry drew a line through one of the items on the list in front of him. "The enchanted passage was sealed. If we try to walk to London, we'll probably get lost and freeze on the mountain." He drew a line through everything on his sheet. "That's all mine. Do you have anything different?"

Hermione ran a finger down her significantly longer list. "I have a few ideas, but none that I trust enough to use."

Frowning at the exhaustive list she seemed to have compiled, Harry snatched Hermione's parchment away. "Surely one of these is doable. What about this one? A seventh year or greater level who has mastered transportation circles sends us. That's perfect."

"Perfect? I don't know any seventh years who would want to be bothered with sending us anywhere. Besides, how could we trust them not to send us to Tibet on a lark?" Hermione shook her head adamantly. "It's too risky."

"I have two words for you, Hermione: Thatcher Lewis. He owes me. You remember that broken Alert Charm that I did three detentions over back at home? He was sneaking out to see a girl. If he'd been caught over the Alert Charm he wouldn't have been able to rendezvous for weeks. I agreed to take a fall for it, but only because it's good when upperclassmen owe you. He's competent too. We won't end up in Tibet by accident or on purpose."

"You really trust him to transport us? It makes me nervous." Hermione snatched her parchment back and circled the plan Harry was advocating. "The really hard part comes when you consider that we don't want to be missed. There aren't classes, but all it will take is one person in the dorms asking about us and there will be trouble."

"That won't be a problem. If we ask them not to say anything, they won't." Harry grinned, visibly relaxing now that they had a feasible plan. "This is going to work."

"If it doesn't it's all your fault as you are the one who picked it from a long list of very feasible plans," Hermione said.

"Very feasible?" Harry took the slip of parchment back and started reading. "Break into Headmistress McGonagall's office and steal Floo Powder... Wait that is another good one, and I could save my upperclassman favour."

Hermione rolled her eyes and rose quickly. "We're not breaking in anywhere today. Come on, let's find Thatcher. If he isn't game, we'll have to reconsider."

**

* * *

**

Five Days Until Christmas:

The front of the London Group home loomed over the entire street, its peeling grey paint almost blending with the snow-heavy clouds in the sky. Lily stood in front of the building, and stared up at its five stories feeling small and young again. She had spent quite a few Christmases in there, huddling close to the fire and arguing over oranges. There was never much, but some kind soul invariably brought a few presents or a little fruit to share with the parentless and Muggle-born.

Lily hadn't really been back since graduating. She and James had headed to the hills, leaving London, with its perks and problems, behind. Coming back to the city hadn't been so bad when Remus was around and they were working, but he'd called a temporary halt so that he could visit his family. They were in-hiding exiles the same as their son, living under a death sentence earned for the crime of sheltering their only child.

Left alone in London for a few days with nothing but time, Lily had made quick work of the small obligations that had built up in her and James's absence. Today there weren't any excuses to keep her away from her childhood home and her last real obligation in the city. She walked up the front steps and used the doorknocker.

The stooped crone who answered the door was unmistakable. Her frizzy grey hair and rather bulging mad brown eyes were an icon of Lily's childhood. "Madam Hilda," Lily said. "Do you remember me?"

The old woman squinted up vaguely and snorted. "Remember you? And should I? What do you need? This be a subsidized home. We don't take no solicitors here, missy."

"I'm not a solicitor," Lily said. She smiled and quickly brought the package she had carried with her forward. "These are for the children, for the holidays."

Hilda accepted the package. She shook it, sniffed it, then peering over the edge she finally asked, "So what is it, anyhow?"

"Some trinkets," Lily said. "Nothing dangerous or too terribly loud, I promise."

The old woman's grim expression cracked into a broad snaggle-toothed grin, and she gestured for Lily to come in. "You'll be wanting to give the little ones their pretties?"

Hesitating at the doorway, Lily shook her head. There was a lifetime of memories over that threshold. A powerless Muggle-born girl lurked just around the corner and Lily was not prepared to face her today. "Actually, could you give them out at Christmas? I really can't stay. You understand."

"Eh? Fine then," Hilda said. She stepped back and slammed the door.

Rubbing her nose where the door had bumped it, Lily smiled. Some people never changed.

**

* * *

**

Four Days Until Christmas:

Sequestered inside a cavern, in a hole so deep and dark that a man might think he'd slipped into the underworld, a Muggle named Bert crept forward with his lone torch. Its pitiful glow lit the room just enough that he didn't stumble over the uneven floors, but the light didn't reach the unseen walls. Trying desperately to hold onto the shreds of his courage, Bert continued moving steadily forward. Why had the housekeeper sent him to fetch their master when there were house-elves that knew the catacombs well enough that they might not get lost... _Because you're less valuable than a house-elf,_ Bert told himself.

And it was true.

Muggle servants were a dime a dozen. They were easier to come by and they had to sleep more the house-elves. Who cared if he went into the catacombs and never wandered back out? Jumping at a sound like sandpaper rubbing over stone, Bert whimpered and hurried forward as fast as he dared. It was just a stupid rat, a big rat... a rat that liked to hiss. At first the sound was on his right, then behind him, then...

How had it got in front of him? Skidding to a stop, Bert dropped his torch and it extinguished, blinding him. He could hear his heart thundering in his ears, his gasping breaths choking him instead of replenishing him. He was going to die. That hissing-sliding thing was going to kill him.

_"Lumos."_

The steady magical blue glow of a wizard's wand extinguished the black-blindness with a piercing-light blindness. Squinting and shading his eyes, Bert could just see the form of his Master, highlighted dramatically by the glow of his wand. He blinked for several seconds until his eyes weren't stinging and useless.

The room was no longer a mysterious black space. It was dirty and wet, gothic and grand, with dramatic stone arches and columns, more like a moulded cathedral than a tomb. And there was a least one feature that Bert could have gone the rest of his life without ever seeing. A glittering black serpent, so long that it could surely half-span London Bridge, coiled like a patient lap dog at his master's side.

"I assume you have a message," Riddle said. "You should share it now, lest my friend lose her patience with you. She hasn't eaten tonight."

Bert dropped to his knees and stared at the ground, terrified almost beyond the ability to speak. Now that he wasn't looking at the giant beast, he was able to choke out his message. "Visitor for you, Master Riddle, above in the red sitting room."

"Very good," Riddle said.

For a brief moment, Bert felt hope. He had done his job, delivered the message. Now he could just leave. A strange sound, like a man choking or wheezing or hissing, filled the room. Bert dared to look up, and he witnessed what could only be a conversation between the man and his serpent. Then his master and the light of his wand were gone.

Enveloped in the darkness again, he could hear the sound, a sound he now knew was the slithering of a giant serpent - a carnivore.

And it hadn't eaten tonight...

* * *

Strolling through his palatial home, Tom Riddle took little notice of the third tier trappings that were his due. Silks, gold, and ancient pottery weren't collectables that interested him. If this home hadn't been a gift from the Emperor, he'd have chosen a dwelling that was more to his taste, something understated with plenty of books and a nice-sized laboratory for experimentation. At least this particular palace had an extensive network of catacombs in which he could escape from the gaudy trappings of his station. It was a place where he could work undisturbed and where Nagini could feel comfortable. 

In one of his many sitting rooms, a tall angular man with grey-streaked black hair reclined on one of Tom's many bits of antique furniture. Tom knew better than to mistake the man's thinness for frailty. His muscles stretched over his ancient bones like whit leather, and his icy blue eyes gazed forward with keen intelligence. "Salazar, ancestor, to what do I owe this visit?" Riddle asked. "Have you changed your mind already? I don't see the book."

"I didn't bring the book," Salazar said. "You seem understaffed. Still feeding Nagini your servants? It's wasteful, you know."

"She has a taste for human flesh," Riddle replied absently. "I've never been able to deny her anything. You still feed Efra house-elves. I'd say Nagini's tastes are remarkably less expensive. If you don't have the book, why are you here?"

"I want a progress report," Salazar snapped. "Last of my line, fool, have you made any headway undoing the dead end you created in MY family tree?"

Wishing that Salazar had nothing to hold over his head, Tom responded to his ancestor's scathing comments calmly. "I still don't understand your obsession with a family bloodline when you're immortal. If I'd known how eccentric you were about it, I would have fathered a dozen bastards before drinking the elixir of life. As it is, you should move on and give me the Slytherin Bible. As your ancestor and equal, I'm owed a glimpse into that tome."

"You're owed nothing," Salazar hissed. "You should consider carefully before claiming equality with me. I don't think a duel between us would end well for you."

"And then what would become of your bloodline?" Riddle asked. "Leave me in peace, ancestor. When I've solved your problem, I will contact you for my payment."

Salazar snorted and rose gracefully. "I trust you will, but if I solve the problem first, you'll get nothing."

Now alone in his sitting room with its distasteful crimson silks, Tom conjured a goblet of Firewhiskey and drank it down. Salazar was an eccentric stubborn old fool, but his request wasn't completely impossible.

Salazar wanted his blood to continue, not just in his own veins, but in the veins of generations to come. Unbeknownst to his annoying ancestor, Tom had already discovered a way to make that happen. Now he just had to find the right child to honour with the gift of Slytherin blood.

Fortunately, he had an entire school of possibilities to choose from.

**

* * *

**

Three Days Until Christmas:

A full moon shone down on Malfoy Manor and its cadre of ferocious gargoyles. On the roof, lurking near one of those ancient black marble statues, Draco held his cloak close and watched the snow fall. A distant howl reached him, and he squinted at the snowy landscape, though he knew he wouldn't see anything interesting. The hunt would never come far enough out of the wilderness for him to see a werewolf from here. This year, this month, this moon, it was supposed to be his turn. His father had been regaling him with daring war stories about the monthly werewolf hunt for as long as Draco could remember. He had promised that they would attend the hunt this winter together. As terrifying as that prospect was, Draco had been proud to have his father's faith. Most sons weren't allowed on the hunt until they were at least fifteen.

Everything was different since he returned from school. His father hadn't once acknowledged his presence since the beginning of the winter holiday. Dinner was an awkward affair in which his mother talked to first her husband and then her son, trying to bridge the chasm between them. Sighing, Draco spun and headed back inside. Freezing to death on the roof wasn't going to get him a glimpse of a werewolf, and it wasn't going to make his father forgive him for the embarrassment he had caused the family.

Shrugging out of his cloak carelessly, Draco headed for his mother's favourite sitting room. The expensive fur-lined garment never touched the ground. A house-elf spirited it away without being seen or heard. Draco tapped at the thick mahogany doors blocking his way, and they swung open soundlessly. His mother's doors had never yet failed to allow him entry. She hadn't held his mistakes against him.

Narcissa was sitting erect and regal at her writing desk. White-blond hair piled atop her head, she scribbled on, but a half smiled curled on her petite rosebud lips. "Sit down, relax. Your father should be home soon."

Draco settled onto one of the cream-coloured sofas, facing his mother. "What are you writing?" He couldn't think of any positive thing to say about his father's imminent arrival so he avoided the subject.

"An invitation," Narcissa said. "We're having a birthday party for you this spring, as if you didn't know."

There was no point asking his mother why she was writing invitations for his annual birthday party months in advance. She had always been a little peculiar about small things like that. He could see her wastebasket from here, and there were quite a few wads of paper in it. Draco headed over and pulled one out. It was perfect calligraphy from what he could tell, but he knew why she had thrown it away. There was a flaw, real or imagined that she found impossible to tolerate. Scrutinizing the crumpled paper, Draco couldn't see the defect. "They don't have to be perfect, you know."

"No, but they shouldn't be illegible either," Narcissa said. "If you don't mind, get me a list of your classmates that you'd like to invite." She rose and embraced her son. "I have to go see about the menu for tomorrow's dinner."

For the briefest instant, Narcissa's hand caressed the scar carved into her son's cheek, and her eyes rested there anxiously. She turned to leave, but Draco felt like his stomach had shrivelled into a hard, wrinkled knot. Was he like those almost perfect invitations to her now? Was he an intolerable imperfect thing in her eyes? "Mum," Draco called.

She turned in the doorway, and he couldn't detect a trace of derision or distaste on her perfectly composed porcelain doll features. "Yes?"

"It's nothing," Draco said. "Never mind."

**

* * *

**

Two Days Until Christmas:

A fine Veela-haired paintbrush in-hand, Bartholomew leaned close to the nearly complete portrait in his studio. He'd been mixing greens trying to capture the exact living aquamarine to complete the eyes of the young man in the picture. When creating art that you intended to enchant and animate, the artist had to select a focus, a fulcrum, and Bartholomew had known it would be the eyes of this picture from the very beginning. He had finished the toddler first. Her brown eyes were downcast, focused on a plush unicorn doll that her grandparents had given her. The young man was beaming up with an armful of toy Legionaries squirming to escape and fight each other.

When he finally brought the picture to life, Bart fully expected chaos to ensue. The day he was trying to capture had been wild and fun. Daubing at the right eye of the boy in the portrait, Bartholomew stared down his nose through his bifocals critiquing his handiwork. He was close, very close. He wouldn't be needing the pensive again for this project. Settling the paintbrush into a jar of water, Bartholomew withdrew his wand.

_"Animo Vividus."_ The still damp oils on the canvas soaked in a fine mist of magic from his wand. _"Animo Vividus."_ The spell wouldn't work unless the likeness was near perfect. Was he close enough? _"Animo Vividus."_

The boy, a two dimensional memorial to his grandson Harry, smiled broader. He set his Legionaries on the ground and pointed them toward his sister's unicorn.

"Perfect," Bart said. It was ready and in time to be his Christmas present for Melinda. The old girl was bound to love it, and she'd have a hard time one-upping him as she tried to do every year. Well, it was almost perfect. The toy Legionaries had seized the unicorn and Isobel had begun to wail. "Quiet now," Bart said. "You're going to ruin the surprise. Give your sister her doll back, right now. Hush now."

"Bartholomew, I'm trying to work!" Melinda called. "Whatever you're doing please silence your studio. I will never master the rules of Twiddle Ball with your paintings screaming in the background!"

"Yes dear," Bartholomew replied. "Silencing!"

**

* * *

**

Christmas Eve:

A Christmas package, so full of magic that it practically glowed, sat on a grey bedspread. Its red foil wrapping paper glimmered in the moonlight shining through the window. Isobel stared at it, trying to decide whether she wanted to open it tonight or tomorrow. Joey already opened her box. It was full of delicate dancing birds. They had flown around the room for hours before the spell on them wore down and they fluttered to the ground, just empty folds of paper. There wasn't any reason to save her treasure. Except that real treasures were rare enough that the anticipation was hard to let go of.

She needed something to look forward to. Her brother wasn't coming to visit. Isobel knew it had been too much to ask, but she wrote her stupid letter and mailed it. Harry had better things to do than visit his sister, the annoying baby. He hadn't even taken the time to write back and tell her he wasn't coming.

Well, who needed him? Isobel lifted her package to her ear and shook it gently, but whatever was inside didn't rattle. Paper birds wouldn't rattle though. It was probably another box of birds just like Joey's. The packages had been practically the same, but if she was going to stop being a pessimist about it, every package she'd seen opened had released a different surprise. A unique treasure might be waiting for her under the flaps of that box.

A crash from the main hall caught Isobel's attention. She turned toward the door curiously.

"Shhh...you're going to wake the whole home up!" someone hissed.

Isobel heard the door to her dorm open, and the shuffling steps of two people creeping across the room in the shadows. At first she was scared, but the silhouette of one of those shadows had rather unruly hair, and his glasses were glinting in the moonlight. Isobel's heart rose and she smiled broadly. He really came?

"Isobel? Are you awake?" Harry whispered. Isobel closed her eyes and feigned sleep. "Izzy?"

Yawning dramatically, she turned her head languidly as though she were bemused to see her brother and his friend Hermione standing over her bedside. "Harry, I didn't know you were coming. You should have written ahead and I'd have been ready."

"Yeah, I should have written ahead so you could tell everyone that I was coming to visit and have you get me into trouble," Harry whispered. "Roll out twerp, before we wake up all your little friends."

"Why don't we want to wake anyone up?" Isobel whispered. "They won't turn you in."

"Just come," Harry hissed.

Isobel didn't need any other encouragement. She tucked her present under her arm and scrambled after her big brother. They ducked out into the hall and scampered downstairs to the dining hall. It was dusty and ram-shackled and grey, nothing like school – just like home. Harry smiled and climbed onto one of the chairs. He tapped the chair next to him silently inviting Isobel to join him. "We didn't want to wake anyone up, because we could only fit so many pasties in our pockets."

Hermione piled two bundles of napkin-wrapped pasties onto the table. Continuing to hold her tongue, she took a seat across from the siblings, far enough removed that she could watch them interact without actually being pulled into the sphere of their family. They weren't her family. Her father, the only living family she had, was a transient trapper, and she had no idea how to find him. If he hadn't been a trapper, she'd have been taken from him years earlier, but their lifestyle allowed her to fall through the cracks, avoiding the head-hunters that stole Muggle-born wizarding children from their parents.

Over a year ago, she'd been wandering the woods with her father. Eating in a pub was supposed to be a treat, but it turned into a nightmare. A bored-looking blonde wizard had walked in, taken one look at her, and it was like he could see it on her skin, emblazoned across her forehead – magic-be-here. She remembered that he had smiled at her, a friendly smile. He stunned her father, stunned her, and carried her away like a sack of potatoes. She sometimes wondered if her father had any idea why she'd been taken. Muggle children were conscripted for a lot of things, not just because they were actually witches. She wondered if he worried about her the way she worried about him.

"You're not forgiven!" Speaking through a mouthful of cake, Isobel glared at her brother. "It was really mean of you to not tell me you were coming. And the pastry isn't going to make it all better."

"Really," Harry said. "If it's such a hardship to have me here, maybe I should go?"

"You've only been here five and a half seconds," Isobel shrieked. "You can't leave yet!"

Harry smiled mischievously. They weren't going to able to stay long and not be discovered, but they could stay the night, and still be back at school in time for another Christmas party. "Where did you get the present?" Harry asked. "Charity?"

"I guess," Isobel said. She pulled the box forward and her hands trembled over the ribbon. "Madam Hilda gave them out earlier today. Should I open it?"

"It's your present," Harry said. "Yeah, open it already."

Biting her bottom lip, Isobel swept the box into her lap and tore the pretty paper and ribbon away. Her treasure didn't fly out of the box like Joey's had. A miniature unicorn pranced inside the shredded package. It tossed its long white mane and nudged her finger. Isobel cooed and scooped the toy into her arms. A horn that should have been razor sharp was blunted and springy, but otherwise Isobel though the reproduction was practically perfect. "It's so pretty."

"That's awfully nice for a charity present," Harry said. "The nicest things I ever got were those chocolate frogs a couple of years ago."

Hermione moved closer to look at the toy unicorn. "Wow, that is really nice." She traced a finger along the toy's white muzzle and smiled when it whinnied at her.

Frowning up at Hermione, Isobel sniffed. She scooted closer to Harry protectively. "Why did you come with Harry anyway? I don't remember writing to you." She glared at Hermione accusingly, and clutched her new toy close. "Are you Harry's girlfriend, now?"

Heat flooded into her face, and Hermione felt a distinct urge to strangle Harry's little sister. She was a girl and she was Harry's friend. That did not make her his girlfriend, damn it. She had no intention of ever dating a wizard, group home variety or other.

"Absolutely," Harry said. He winked at Hermione so that Isobel couldn't see. "Hermione is my new girlfriend. Give her a hug, now. I expect you to share your unicorn with her too."

Isobel gaped at Hermione and Harry in turn. It felt like her jaw had come unhinged. Hermione was completely mad and scary and ill-mannered. And she had bushy hair! Hermione could not have her brother. Harry deserved way better. Isobel squinted at Hermione maliciously and clutched her unicorn tighter. "You were always getting in trouble here, running away and starting fights. I bet you've been in lots of trouble at school. I wonder if they'd kick you out over a little more?"

Before Hermione or Harry could do anything to stop her, Isobel screamed, a high pitched piercing howl, guaranteed wake everyone including the neighbours.

"That was brilliant, Harry," Hermione growled. "If I get declassified over this, you and your Hell-spawned-Banshee sister will live to regret it."

**

* * *

**

Christmas:

"We need a house-elf," Melinda groaned. Splayed across her couch with one arm thrown over her eyes for protection from the sun, she relaxed in her thoroughly rumpled orange dress. "I don't have a single Scourgify in me."

"Fine, I'll take on the next house-elf that comes calling, but you'll just get in their way when you start cleaning again, and there will be hurt feelings all around," Bartholomew said. "Remember what happened with Dharma? I've never seen a house-elf have a nervous breakdown until that incident with the supper dishes."

"Ugh, okay, I don't need a house-elf. I need someone else to host my Christmas party next year." Melinda finally moved her arm and took a quick look at the devastation of her home. The enchanted lights that spent the evening floating around the room had collapsed to the floor limp and exhausted. Mostly empty trays of hors d'oeuvres were resting on different surfaces, and empty bottles of spirits decorated the mantle. "I thought it was a sane crowd we invited? My political outcast friends and your artist-types, they shouldn't have been able to party this hard. No one here was under sixty!"

"Face it, love, our friends could party any eighteen-year-old in this country under the table. They've had more practice." Bart offered his wife a hand and helped her to her feet. "We'll clean tomorrow, after we've had a few hours sleep. Agreed?"

"You read my mind." Melinda linked her arm with Bart's and she leaned into him, enjoying the physical closeness and companionship. At the top of the stairs, she spotted a change in the house that wasn't directly related to the wreckage of her party. Where the portrait of Bart's Great Aunt Francis usually hung a new smaller portrait was hanging, and it was draped in a bespeckled painter's cloth. "Is this my Christmas present?"

"How did you guess?" Bart reached up and gently dislodged the cloth covering.

Melinda's breath caught in her throat and she walked forward to get a closer look at her new portrait. She traced her fingers over the bronzed label at the base of the picture. In Memoriam. It didn't say what it was commemorating, at least not in words. The two sleeping subjects said all she needed them to say. Bartholomew had painted her grandchildren for her. "It's perfect," Melinda whispered.

Bart was singularly happy that the kids were asleep for his unveiling. The portrait was perfect enough that when they were awake, the two kids fought as much as they played, and they could be rather noisome. "Well, did I finally do well this year, love?"

Nodding her head, Melinda threw her arms around Bartholomew's neck. Yes, he had had issues with the Christmas present tradition. For the thirty years they'd been exchanging gifts he had given her ill-fitting clothes, ugly hats, strange baubles, and even an odd Muggle-baked spice cake. But she had adored every eccentric offering because she knew he was trying and that they were offered out of his love for her. "You've always given me exactly what I wanted."

* * *

A simple breakfast of eggs and toast was Lily's Christmas present to herself. So far it had been a lonely winter. Granted, she could have spent the last evening at a Christmas party, but Lily couldn't face a social event with her in-laws alone. Bartholomew had always been kind, but Melinda never quite approved of Lily. It wasn't her heritage or even her politics that caused them to argue. While Lily wanted to fight tangibly and join the revolution, Melinda had argued passionately against it. She honestly believed that the system could be salvaged, reformed from within. To her way of thinking, the rebels just made Melinda's job harder. They took her views and made them criminal and harder to advocate openly. Well, Lily had chosen not to face her mother in-law's disdain. She would have done it for James, but not for anyone else in the world.

Over the course of her two weeks of down time, several Christmas presents had been created and sent out via owl post, but her masterpiece had been sent to her absentee husband. She wrote James a letter and included a special potion. It was called a Kiss in a Bottle. The brewing hadn't been overly complex. She finished in four days. Mentally, she catalogued the ingredients that had gone into her special Christmas present: moonstone, an ounce of gold dust, aged red wine... a lover's tear.

The end of her letter instructed James to drink the potion at exactly ten on Christmas morning if he had a few hours to spare. Picking at her food, Lily watched the clock and willed the hands to move forward the last clicks to ten o'clock. She dropped her fork and lifted her glass to her lips. The bit of potion she had saved back for herself filled her nose with the smell of roses and cinnamon. The clock chimed a musical score heralding the beginning of the hour, and Lily drank.

For several seconds she savoured the silky texture and comfortingly sweet flavour with her eyes shut. When she next looked at the world, everything had gone hazy, indistinct and impressionistic. She wasn't alone anymore. James was standing in her kitchen holding his empty bottle.

Lily rose in a fluid, dream-indistinct motion and threw herself into James' arms. The spell wasn't going to last forever, and she had missed him so much.

**

* * *

**

The Day After Christmas:

Inside a normal home, on a regular street a single candle burned in the living room window. No one was waiting up for a husband or child or wife. The entire family was home and settled for the evening. Well almost everyone was settled. A beautiful woman, a creature, the embodiment of Envy, curled tensely on a brocade couch and listened to her fellow Reapers. Avarita and Fastosus, the embodiments of Greed and Pride, occupied the master bedroom. She knew it was decorated in the richest silks and some of the most decadent statuary on three continents. Their vices fed off each other, and they found a union, a man and woman pleasure together. They were a team. Their room was silent tonight, but many nights it wasn't.

The next smallest bedroom nearest the kitchens wasn't silent tonight, but then it never was. Gluto and Irritum took their rest in that room. Gluttony and Lust much like Pride and Greed found comfort together, synchrony, pleasure. From the animal sounds leaking through the bedroom door, tonight was particularly satisfying. Irritum had cause to celebrate. She had a new body, and Lust's new form was powerful, sexy, and so very young. The new body was part-Veela, ridiculously appropriate. The bitch even had the gall to keep the little witch's slutty French accent. Listening to her lisp her way through their conversation all evening had nearly driven Invidia mad.

As much as she envied Irritum's new form, there was something she wanted more... someone she needed. Savio, their leader, the incarnation of Wrath, took his rest in the attic bedroom, and every night, he locked the door against her. She couldn't make him understand the logic that they were meant to be a pair the same way the other vices were. Why couldn't he see? Gathering herself to make her nightly plea, Invidia climbed the steep stairs to the attic bedroom and pounded at the door. "I know you're awake. Open the damn door. Fighting this is ridiculous and futile. Savio? Savio!"

Possessed of a silent cool rage, Savio listened to Invidia plead through his door. She was right, they were meant to be paired the same as any of the other vices, but her very nature condemned them to separation. For Envy to receive her desire was for Envy to lose all interest and connection. Savio could open the door and Invidia would be his for an evening, but he would lose their connection in the same night. He would rather keep her pounding at his door, than lose her because of her nature.

It was better this way, he told himself, but it was infuriating.

* * *

**Author's Note**

The Halloween chapter came out in August. It's only natural that the Christmas chapter come out at Halloween, right? This is sort of a snapshot chapter. It goes in a lot of directions, but I was trying to keep a feeling of cohesiveness and momentum, largely with Harry, Hermione, and Isobel's arc. I'm rather happy with the Riddle subplot as of this chapter. It's picking up speed.


	12. Dead or Alive

**Chapter 11 – Dead or Alive **

History of the World Volume III Chapter 21 The Rule of Turpin – Self Control

_  
…Control is an illusion. Chaos lurks around every corner, waiting to destroy the delicate balance that allows the illusion of control to exist. Chaos can come in many forms, both external and internal. You understand the chaos that is a wildfire burning your crop, your, home, and taking your life. But chaos can invade the very mind leaving insanity and waste behind. The skill in leading is actually in channelling chaos, both internally and externally...

* * *

_

A dark hooded figure stole down a deserted back alley, stepping over puddles of urine, piles of excrement, and rubbish. The stench in this particular Muggle town was enough to choke your average maggot, but the cloaked figure showed no sign that he noticed. Striding through the Muggle offal, the man pushed open a hidden side door and headed inside. A warm orange glow from a low-burning fire filled the room, but the wood smoke did nothing to mask the smell from the contaminated streets.

An elderly Muggle woman brandished a straw broom and waved it at her intruder. "Get ye' out! Get ye' out!" she screeched.

Extending his wand, the intruder flicked a stream of magic at the Muggle without speaking. Her shouts were silenced as she crumbled to the floor in a jumbled heap. The door behind him creaked open again, and the man spun with his wand still extended. A dirty-faced young man froze and lifted his hands submissively. "Are you lost sir?" the boy asked. "Or... Liquorice Drops?"

Lowering his wand, the man shoved back his hood, revealing his sallow complexion and tired eyes. Dumbledore always devised such asinine code words. "I'm reporting to children now?" Serverus sneered. "Are you ready to listen then child? I risk my life, every second you hover in the doorway uncertainly." Since his transfer out of the education system, it was too dangerous for him to report directly anymore. He was being watched too closely.

"Yes, sir," the boy answered. He shut the door and hastily crossed the room to the crumpled old woman. "Gran... did you hurt her? Why would you hurt her?"

"She was screeching," Serverus said. "Now she's sleeping. Are you listening?"

Still crouched next to his grandmother, the boy looked up, determination in his eyes. "I'm listening."

But Serverus didn't speak aloud. He extended his wand and began to write his report in the Muggle boy's mind so that it would be inaccessible to the child, only readable by the man the message was addressed to.  
_  
I am currently employed by the Witch Oscasia, under the direct supervision of Mabel Turpin. It appears that the Turpin family has been assisting in the location and identification of Reapers for the emperor for some time. The following characteristics are used to identify potential Reapers. They are between the ages of eleven and nineteen; this characteristic is absolute. They are found with a geographic window defined by a Seer. The other characteristics are helpful but not completely determinate. They include: strong Muggle heritage and strength in magic. _

The Turpins have been carefully aiding the acquisition of the Reapers for the Emperor. Children living outside of society are at serious risk for escape from the program. The Turpins calculate the statistical probability that any one individual will become a Reaper. They also calculate the probability that the next Reaper is enrolled in the school system and available for detection.

Mabel Turpin is the only witch working on this problem. I am her only staff. The Turpins are in trouble. The last two Reapers chosen were outliers - Mabel listed them as low risk to become Reapers. The Emperor has been slowly eliminating those of the Turpins who have disappointed him over the years, and their talent pool has become shallow. If Mabel is eliminated, the family will likely lose its position.

They are desperate.

With a practiced twist of his wand over the boy's head, Serverus sealed the message. "Do you know what you're supposed to do? Do you know where to go?"

"Yes sir," the boy said. He held out a shaking hand for the money he was owed. Serverus dispensed two flat gold pieces onto the outstretched hand, and the boy tucked them away quickly. "Gran will be okay?"

Serverus didn't even bother to answer. He pulled his hood up and slipped back outside into the night.

* * *

The Great Hall was filled with students attacking the evening meal. Their conversations filled the room with a cacophony of indecipherable sound. Harry took his plate of food around to the other first year students, but he didn't sit at Ron and Hermione's end of the table. He settled next to Draco. "The kitchen is spreading its wings lately. What was that green stuff sculpted into a Hippogriff?" Harry asked. 

Draco looked up and shrugged dismissively. "I don't eat food I can't identify." He cast a glance down the length of the table toward Harry's usual crowd. "Still not talking to your girlfriend?"

"Hermione is not NOW, nor has she EVER been my girlfriend. We haven't even spoken since the winter break." Refusing to meet Draco's sarcastic sneer, Harry focused on his dinner, cutting his roast beef into tiny pieces. Harry just barely refrained for raising his hand to massage the faded bruises from where Hermione had broken his nose.

"Would you like some advice?" Draco didn't wait for Harry to accept or decline his offer. He leaned back and smiled knowingly. "You're handling the situation all wrong. You apologized to her. If a girl broke my nose, there would be a reckoning. Three words and you could have her sent to Class II. You're letting her have all the power. It's ridiculous."

"It isn't a game, and it isn't about power," Harry said. "I got her in trouble, four weeks of detentions and a flag in our files. When I apologized, she broke my nose. Until I get an apology...I'm done."

Draco just rolled his eyes. "Good enough, I suppose, but I don't see why you don't just file a report and get her declassified. At least have enough dignity not to apologize to her again."

Eating quietly, Harry ignored Draco's comment. It was pointless to try and explain it to him. He could never understand why Hermione would be so angry, but Harry had an inkling. She wasn't a witch so much as a Muggle girl with magic. She didn't like wizards, and she didn't revel in the status she'd gained. She was in the group home for more that a month before she started actually trying to learn the lessons they were teaching. When she decided to learn, she became single-minded about it. Harry didn't understand what changed the rules for Hermione and made school important. But when Isobel started screaming this Christmas, she hindered Hermione in her single-minded educational pursuits. Then when Harry tried to apologize he stumbled onto a button that turned things ugly. He didn't think Hermione meant to hurt him, but she was going to have to apologize before they could move forward.

Almost against his will, Harry gazed down at Hermione, daring her to look up and acknowledge him, but the only one who looked up was Ron, a strained smile hovering on his face. "You're right about one thing though, Draco," Harry said. "I'm through begging for forgiveness. It isn't getting me anywhere. The ball's in her court."

* * *

Ron exhaled dramatically and stared at Hermione. She didn't look up from her meal, casually taking small bites of her dinner and chewing slowly. "You are a bloody mystery," Ron whispered. "A flag in your file isn't that big a deal. You can ask my brother George if you don't believe me. I would like my two favourite friends to stop avoiding each other some time this term." 

Hermione folded her napkin and set in on the table before she looked up. "It's not a mystery. I'm afraid of what I'll do if I try to talk to him." Hermione curled her hands into fists, the only outward sign she allowed of her internal turmoil. Daily she grappled with a rage that just seemed to get stronger and meaner as she grew older. It had been a part of her so long that she didn't even remember when it was born. It wasn't at the group home she was certain, but that place had refined it. She remembered her first days walking those grey halls. She fought the system for weeks, ignoring her teachers, ignoring the other students. She spent every moment looking for a way to escape - even managed it a few times. But they always brought her back.

Then one day, Philip -- an ogre of a boy with hairy knuckles -- had been picking on a little girl, Isobel. Hermione hardly thought about it at the time. She stepped in and broke his nose. Silencing him made her feel better. Harry had been an unexpected complication. He was thankful and determined to return the favour. She gave him a black eye for his trouble and more than a few nosebleeds over the course of a month. But if he hadn't braved her fists of doom, she might not have learned to read. She might never have discovered her idols, men and women like Franklin Jose, Alice Brice, and Melinda Potter. "I can't get declassified. I won't," Hermione said. "I just get so angry. It's like something inside me, something that I can't control. I'm afraid if I talk to Harry. If I try to apologize, I'll lose it. When he apologized, I broke his nose Ron. I saw red, and started swinging."

It was so ludicrous that Ron might have laughed, except that Hermione wasn't kidding. He'd seen her rage on display more than once. "There has to be a way for you to let it out, besides pummelling people."

Hermione laughed mirthlessly and leaned closer. "I'm a terrible friend," she whispered. "I used to beat him up all the time back at the group home. It was how I learned to tolerate him. I don't want to be angry anymore, Ron. I don't want him to be angry with me, but I don't know how to let this go."

* * *

It was an insubstantial slip of parchment, with scarcely two dozen words written across it. Albus let it rest on the centre of his desk, staring back at him. He'd been expecting this letter since Fred Weasley was taken.  
_  
Director Dumbledore, _

Four instructors have submitted written requests that George Weasley be declassified. There isn't anything I can do, except leave the matter in your hands. I will proceed as you deem best.

Sincerely,

Headmistress McGonagall

Lifting the letter, Albus glanced down at it without reading. He offered it to the quiet, drawn young man sitting across the desk from him. George accepted the letter without reading it either. "Why am I here, sir?" George asked. "A student being sent to Class II isn't that uncommon. We've never even met. Why do you care?"

"I care about all the students in every class, but you especially. I failed you, Mr. Weasley. Your declassification is my fault," Albus said. He removed his half-moon spectacles and massaged the bridge of his nose tiredly. "You may think I'm being dramatic or senile, many would agree with you, but I am in fact, only being honest."

Rummaging on his desk, Albus produced a bowl of multicoloured sweets in different shapes. George stared at the bowl as though it might contain a pair of dirty socks and lifted his eyes back to Albus's face.

"Well then," Albus said. "Your brother was taken into specialized service to the Emperor, and your performance at school has dropped off precipitously since. I have to assume the events are closely linked." Albus took one of the sweets from his bowl and chewed it for several moments, studying George, waiting for any hint of a response from him.

"When I was a young man, younger than you, my family spent three years abroad. While my mother studied Gold-Tipped Peruvian Dragons, my brother and I studied the wild jungles of South America. It was a great adventure for us. Aberforth, my elder brother, was quite precocious, always inventing spells and testing many of them on me. He enjoyed a good joke. Aberforth invented a hex at the age of fourteen that could make a creature grow hairy purple boils in a perfect likeness of a mermaid. Brilliant spell work but the goat he tested it on belonged to a prominent Inca priestess. Got himself in some trouble over that one."

George let the old man ramble, but he stopped listening. This interview wasn't because anyone cared. This was an exit interview, a chance to pick his brain, figure out what went wrong, and try to send him on to success in Class II. Well, he had no intention of doing well in Class II. If he continued to drop all the way to Class IV, and the teachers could find no use for him, they'd have to let him out of the school system. He would be free to pursue important things like his brother and possibly find a place for himself in the rebellion.

"He was sixteen when they took him. A third tier witch named Oscasia walked into our home with an ugly black stone. She made me and my brother touch the stone. It turned red at Aberforth's touch, and that was that."

At the mention of Oscasia, George began listening again. Oscasia? Did Dumbledore know what happened to his brother?

"I didn't see Aberforth for some time after that. Special training they said. They didn't train my brother, Mr. Weasley. They killed him. But worse they desecrated his body afterwards. They filled him with a demon, and called him a Reaper." Albus met and held George's gaze without flinching. "The same thing was done to your brother, though I swore to someday put a stop to it.

"I failed you, at least as terribly as I failed your brother."

Unconscious of the raw pain he projected, George shook his head. "I believe you, sir. Your brother was taken and made into this thing, a Reaper, but they didn't kill Fred. He is alive, and I intend to save him."

"Because a man's body walks and talks, eats and breathes, does not make him alive. I tried to save my brother as well, but there wasn't anything to save," Albus said. He rose and paced away from George. "You will never understand how much I empathize with you, or how sorry I am for what has happened."

George wished he could banish the pity in Dumbledore's eyes. He didn't need the man's pity. He needed him to understand and to help. He'd learned more about what was done to his brother in the last few minutes than anyone had shared in months. But Albus Dumbledore was labouring under a misconception. Reapers did not inhabit corpses. They inhabited the living. "You're wrong. I know my brother's alive. I know it with every breath I take. If I believed he was dead, I'd have to believe he was in Hell, because Fred is in pain, terrible unending agony. We're twins, conjoined at the heart. I know he's alive. I feel it."

"Reapers inhabit the dead bodies of their hosts. There wasn't any trace of my brother's soul in that body," Albus said. "If there had been any chance..."...I wouldn't have been able to kill him. Dumbledore turned, and he wanted to argue. But he couldn't deny the truth burning at him out of George's eyes. If Fred Weasley wasn't dead, if hosts of Reapers didn't die...Albus stumbled over to his desk and sank weak-kneed into his seat. He killed his brother. But more importantly the hosts of Reapers lived on... in unending agony. Albus didn't think George was exaggerating the feedback he felt from his brother, and he didn't harbour any illusions that Aberforth would have had an easier time of it. His brother suffered for a decade until Albus finally ended his pain and killed him. "Forgive me," Albus murmured, "for taking so long."

"We have to save Fred," George said. "Can you help me?"

"The only way that I know to free you brother is the killing curse," Albus said quietly. "It is the curse I used to free Aberforth, though at the time I thought he was already gone."

"Useless. Everyone is useless," George hissed.

"I can help you. We can dull the pain," Albus said. "This connection to your brother is harming you now."

"I'm not the one who needs help. I don't need you to block out my brother. That connection is the only proof I have that he's alive. It's a comforting pain," George said. "Unless you can expedite my exit from the school system, you have nothing to offer me."

"So you can join the rebellion and save your brother?" Albus asked quietly. "Actually, you might be surprised by how much help I can be. Have you ever considered an apprenticeship, Mr. Weasley? I know a master wizard by the name of Moody who is looking for a dedicated young man with the right ideals."

* * *

Her hair tied into a burnished, lopsided knot, Lily ran an ink-smudged finger down a long scroll of parchment. She frowned at the list and absently scratched her nose with her inky finger leaving a blue smudge on her pale skin. 

For his part, Remus was trying to internalize the words in front of him, but he couldn't help staring at his co-worker a bit. She was a dishevelled, scholarly goddess. At moments like this, he could almost forget reality. He could almost forget that this was James' wife and pretend that they were back in school, class partners and the closest of friends. The childhood crush was long dead, of course. It was really just a fantasy that plagued him now; an inkling of a childhood stirring that wasn't even real anymore. Remus refocused on his parchment, determined to get some work done. He needed to finish this job and head back to where life made sense. It was too much of a cruel tease, living and working with Lily.

"Supervisors, schedulers, people involved in the children's education, carers," Lily read. "There are a lot of people that Oscasia could try to subvert in the rebellion to kidnap children. We're going to have an impressive list of people to interview. Assuming she's gearing up to start her abductions, she must have approached some of these people. They couldn't have all been willing to betray the rebellion. I wonder, why hasn't anyone said anything?"

Remus shrugged and flipped his parchment. "She's been at this a long time, Lily. We may be looking at this from the wrong angle. Anyway, we will have an impressive list. But I won't be doing the questioning. Once the list is finished list, I'm done. I have another job lined up and waiting."

Sighing, Lily frowned. "You can't just disappear again though, Remus. You should stay with the rebellion; join us for real. I'm sure we'd get to work together frequently. I promise to keep your clothes mended. James and Sirius wouldn't know what to do. They'd be so happy to have you back in the thick of things with them."

"I can't," Remus said. He couldn't really articulate the vaguely unsettling feelings that Lily awoke in him, but fortunately there were other persuasive arguments for his departure. "I have obligations to the other werewolves too. They let me roam at my own risk, but I've already sworn my allegiance to them. I won't swear again, not to your rebellion or anyone."

* * *

A sprinkling of stars cast the only light over the hills. Moving through the heavily shadowed landscape was slow going, but Hermione trekked through the dew-covered grass easily. She simply followed the trail Ron cut in front of her, trusting him to find any holes or creatures in their path. He stopped suddenly and she almost ploughed right into him. Snorting, she blew a long plume of foggy breath into his neck. "It's cold. What is it we're doing out here? I'm not taking another step until you tell me." 

"Hold on a half a second. It's right around here." Ron glanced over his shoulder and smiled nervously. The idea of Hermione using Harry to pummel her rage out had started him thinking. Did she have to pummel Harry to get her fix? "There it is." Ron headed a couple of steps to the right and pointed to a scrubby soft-looking tree. "It's a Yarrow Berry tree."

"You dragged me out here to admire a tree?" Hermione asked. "Are you feverish?"

"You're not supposed to admire the tree. You're supposed to hit it," Ron said point blankly. "Pound the sap out of the thing."

"You want me to beat up a tree?" Hermione feigned ignorance, but she thought she knew what Ron was suggesting. He thought she could pour her rage out into the activity. He thought rage was that easily siphoned away. She saw Ron gearing up to explain, but she couldn't hear it. "Ron, I know what you mean. Could you leave me alone for a bit. I need to think." It was obvious that he had more to say, but her dark expression brooked no argument.

Hermione stood in front of the tree, a homely stunted-looking thing, completely bare of leaves or any sign of life. She listened to Ron's footfalls until they were swallowed by the night. He was a kind person, like Harry. He wanted to help her, to know her...to be her friend. But he was a wizard like the rest. "Hello tree," Hermione whispered. "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you." She reached out and stroked the rubbery bark. "I think I'm crazy...sometimes I know I am." Hermione closed her eyes and tried to imagine when the anger first broke free in her. When did it start? When she tried to grope through the fog of her memories, it seemed the rage had always been there, a lurking, burning underscore to her life.

"Hermione? Is that you?"

She glanced over her shoulder, but it wasn't Ron, come back to check on her. It was the round-faced ecology nerd who thought her rage scared the magical creatures. Reluctantly, Hermione had to admit he might have been right. "Yes, Neville."

"I didn't mean to interrupt you if you're communing with the Yarrow Berry tree. I mean, it is a very enlightening experience, and I'm sure it would help you, but it works better if you touch it." Neville blushed scarlet and took a step back. "I just assumed that Ron told you about it after the conversation we had. Look, I just came down to gather a few dandelion heads for Potions tomorrow. Don't let me bother you."

Her fists curled tight at her sides, Hermione watched him go. She fought the urge to find Ron Weasley and pound him for setting her up, for talking about her with other students, and planning some kind of therapeutic tree-punching event. The cold wind blowing over her seemed to cool her brain as well as her limbs, and she stood silently instead. She was able to turn back to the tree.

And then she did what Ron told her to.

Hermione hit the tree. Her bare knuckles stung but she hardly noticed. She hit it again and again, pummelling it with the strength of her insatiable rage. She pounded at the tree until blood and sap ran together over her knuckles and down her arms. She punched until she couldn't breathe.

Winded and unable to stop the tears that had somehow begun to leak down her chapped cheeks, Hermione turned her back to the tree and slid down it's trunk, claiming a seat on the cold frozen earth.

"Shhhh..." Hermione looked up, half-convinced that the voice she heard was the wind in the trees, rushing over its winter-barren branches. "Shhhh…don't cry."

Then the winter was gone.

Hermione was insubstantial. She was filled with light and floating, like a ship at sea, only she was skimming through the air lazily. Below her a pair of giggling little girls played on the streets of a Muggle township. She knew those girls, Stephanie and...the other girl with the lopsided, bushy pigtails... it was her. They were playing a game. The older girl, Stephanie, held a spring-mud-ball, waiting for her big brother to come out of the feed store. When the door opened, she threw her missile but it wasn't her brother she hit. Stephanie pushed Hermione behind her a moment before the mud-splattered wizard cast a curse.

The tiny girl, Hermione, froze, unable to move under the wizard's gaze, but he didn't bother casting again. He strolled away after Scourgifying the mud away. A tiny white rat sat where Stephanie had been, and Hermione scooped her up. She stared after the wizard, too terrified to shout her angry protestations. She cuddled her cousin to her breast and waited for Stephanie's brother to really exit the feed store, impotent to do anything but cry.

The wind that buoyed the insubstantial Hermione swirled sharply and pulled her forward, to another place, another time, and another season.

The air was thick and heavy with heat. A family sat quietly around their campfire whilst dinner cooked. They were unwilling to draw too close to the blaze but unable to pull far away either. There were creatures in the woods who were just intimidated enough to avoid a fire and little else.

The woman had long curly brown hair. She was the mother...Hermione's mother. Tall and frail, she had a vague look about her, as though she wasn't really aware of her surroundings. Every few seconds she would cough into her hand. Sometimes the cough was quickly extinguished and sometimes it seemed to go on forever until blood had splattered the ground and her mother's face turned a deathly grey.

"She's dying!" the insubstantial Hermione shouted to the unhearing family. "You're going to let her die!" The young girl and her father paid no heed to the shouted warning, but Hermione thought her mother looked up and saw her. She thought she smiled with her bloodstained lips.

"Shhhh. Don't cry," her mother whispered. "You have to wake up. It's too cold to stay longer, but come see me again. Come again. Wake up!"

Hermione jerked back into consciousness, no longer insubstantial or flying, she was just very cold. Her hands were throbbing ice cubes. When she looked down, they were a mess, bloodstained and bluish. Clumsily, Hermione rose and headed for the school. The wind gusted again, pushing past her and through the trees. "Shhh…" The Yarrow Berry tree whispered one last time, but Hermione didn't look back.

* * *

Draped across his bed and dressed for morning classes, Harry stared at the ceiling waiting for Draco to finish his hair. "I'm starving while you perfect that gel-masterpiece."

Meeting Harry's eye in the mirror, Draco smirked. "You can always head down without me and sit with your girlfriend."

"I'm too hungry to correct you this morning," Harry grumbled. "Are you almost finished?"

"You can't rush perfection, Green." He cocked his head to the side and stared contemplatively at Harry's hair. "Have you ever considered doing something with that mop you call hair?"

"Are you volunteering to be my personal stylist, now?" Harry snorted. He rolled off the bed and joined Draco by the mirror. He used his hand to ruffle his hair into more dramatic disarray. "It can't be tamed by any force know to wizarding kind. Many have tried; the hair always wins."

"Well, you make me look better, so why fight it?" Draco said. They headed out into the halls but someone was waiting for them, well for Harry anyway. The girlfriend, Hermione, was standing there rigid and nervous. Draco noticed light bandages on her hands, and wondered who she'd been pounding today. Hopefully it was someone with enough sense to report her and get the unstable, Muggle-brained girl out of Class I. Maybe this was her tearful farewell and apology rolled into one?

"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione said. She didn't linger for more than a moment after saying the words, and Harry didn't really have time to digest the apology, much less respond.

Draco felt an irrational stab of possessiveness hit him. Hermione might have finally apologized, but did she think Green was going to just fall back in line. Some time over the last few weeks, Draco had come to consider Harry his friend as well as his class partner. It wasn't something he had expected or thought he needed, but he didn't want to lose that comradeship now that he had it.

They continued to breakfast in silence, Harry obviously lost in thought. On their way to the line Harry broke away and headed to where Hermione was sitting with Ron. Draco looked forward, refusing to watch the tearful reunion. It wasn't like it really mattered. He had plenty of friends. He glanced at the first years' table where the established wizarding children sat, where Lisa Turpin held court. He tried to decide which of them was really his friend.

Draco took a seat near Lisa. He greeted her with a cool smirk and began dissecting his sausage. A moment later, Harry slid into the seat next to him and stole a piece of toast off his plate.

"They ran out," Harry said pointedly.

Draco was at a loss for words for at least ten seconds, then he frowned disapprovingly. "Don't make me hex you, Green."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Yes, it has been three weeks since I updated. The horrible affliction known as writer's block visited me. I blame Draco and Harry. They were never supposed to become friends. If you look at my outline that is supposed to be telling me what to write this chapter, Draco should be sabotaging Harry's broom before their first flying lesson. Instead they're consulting each other on hairstyling points. sigh I'd have made them play within the outline, but I like this odd path they've taken and I refuse to deter them in their happier pursuits.

Magical Maeve and her potato gun are greatly responsible for keeping this fic alive and flowing, a million thanks are owed her.


	13. Exodus

**Chapter 12 – Exodus **

History of the World Volume XX Chapter 11 The Rule of Turpin – Sports Are a Blessed Distraction

_  
Games are a tradition of civilization that allows the exercise of body and mind whilst simultaneously distracting the uneducated and disaffected. Entertainment is a small stopgap to calm the masses. Turpin has long support sports in all forms and has been known to attend Quidditch matches featuring Eastern Europe.

* * *

_

The first buds of spring were not treated to peaceful openings, at least not in one corner of the Grecian wilderness. Organized chaos writhed through the rebel base camp that had only recently settled in this new forest. Tents were coming down; small groups of fliers were being loaded, Disillusioned, and dispatched. Sirius and his exhausted soldiers cut through the departing fliers toward their corner of camp. "Edgar," Sirius said. "Find out where they're going and start taking the tents down."

Gazing at the activities of the other rebels blackly, Sirius didn't help his soldiers deconstruct their tents. He hauled his battle-weary, grime-covered self to their newest admiral's tent in search of answers. For the second time in a rather short period, the rebel's base camp was obviously relocating. Were they under the threat of another curse from the Reapers?

The closer he drew to the Admiral's tent, the thicker the cloud of activity became, until he was elbow to elbow with a dozen other commanders waiting just outside. A grim-faced stout redheaded lieutenant was blocking entry to the tent. "I need to speak with Admiral Potter," Sirius said, ignoring the dozen men who were already waiting.

The redhead visibly relaxed. "Commander Black, we've been holding the briefing for your return. Sirs," he addressed all the commanders and stepped out of their way.

Sirius had been hoping for a moment alone with James to really grill him, but he would accept the general briefing to start. If they had time for briefings this wasn't the same break-neck evacuation the Reapers instigated a few months back. James was waiting for his Commanders, standing quietly in front of a map of the world that stretched from floor to ceiling. "Gentlemen, Ladies," James said. "As most of you know, we're relocating immediately. This order comes from the top, the very top. The forces are being split into three contingents. "Adamson, Berk, Sawyer, you're taking the lions share of the ground forces south into Africa. You'll be reporting to Admiral Abdoul Sabieb. He will be taking over primary command from there. Johansen and Williamson, you'll be taking the bulk of the remaining troops, including the healers, west to South America. Admiral Running Bear is expecting you. Commander Black and I will be taking the special services to southeast Asia." James took a long breath, waiting for the succinctly stated orders to sink in. While he spoke, Charlie Weasley had passed out detailed written orders to each of the commanders. "Questions?"

Johansen, a sour-faced middle-aged woman, frowned as she flipped through her orders. "I take it this scatter drill is need-to-know only? I've always wanted to travel." She cut her eyes toward Williamson. "Admiral Running Bear? What kind of name is that?"

"It's a name you'd best get used to using very respectfully," James said. "Questions people, I want camp deconstructed by tonight."

The other commanders had questions to ask. They needed to know useless information like the logistics of the move, or whether the new locations were permanent. None of them even strayed close to the most important question. Sirius sat and listened, waiting for the others to finally finish quibbling so that he could deal with James alone. When the last of the commanders had gone and Charlie had been dismissed, James turned to Sirius like a man preparing for a dose of bitter medicine.

"Well," James said. "I don't know a word of Vietnamese."

Sirius shook his head and pushed the sheaf of orders across the table. "We're abandoning Europe? Why the Hell are we abandoning Europe?"

"You'd think I'd know, but this is from Albus himself. He wants base camp well-removed. He refused to elaborate," James said. "What can I do?"

"This is my home, and I'll be damned if we're going to the Orient to let the Reapers run roughshod over it," Sirius growled. "You can go. You can take my men. But I'm not going anywhere."

"And you're going to save the continent all by yourself. You're good Sirius, but be realistic. Besides, we're not abandoning Europe," James said. "We're going to keep a Rebel presence alive, but with base set a little farther back."

"Vietnam, that's a Hell of a commute. Has the old man finally lost his mind? It isn't an act anymore, is it? James, someone needs to stand up and say no to this. It's crazy." Sirius scrubbed at his stubble-covered chin tiredly. He stared across the table at James' immobile expression. "We're going, aren't we." Sirius leaned forward and reclaimed his orders. Absently he thumbed through the document. "Wait... this says..."

James just smiled. "Don't worry. The Dog Pack is yours. I'll be heading east as a member of your team. Which means after this camp comes down, I'll be taking orders from you."

* * *

Walking back into a second tier Governor's office was a big step for Melinda. When she retired nearly six years earlier, she hadn't thought that she'd ever walk through another stiflingly ornate overdone hallway. At least Albus's section at the top of the tower wasn't as airless as some she'd been in. The decorations befitted his station, with properly gilt baubles and properly tinted silks, but there was a playfulness to the room, a dash of whimsy in the dangling lights and the motley group of portraits on the wall.

Melinda stopped at the reception desk and waited for the gawky young man behind the desk to notice her. He was writing furiously in an appointment book. After giving him several seconds to look up, Melinda cleared her throat delicately. "I have an appointment," she said. The young man stopped scribbling but he didn't look up for a very long moment. Melinda cocked her head to the side, bewildered by the stark terror in his eyes. She offered him her hand, but he just stared. "I'm Melinda Potter, two o'clock?"

"You're Melinda Potter? I assumed you'd be talking over the mirrors. I mean... really."

"Percival, could you please send in my appointment?"

Melinda recognized the disembodied voice coming for the ajar office door as Albus'. She frowned at his assistant, confused as to why anyone would want to work with someone quite so unpleasant. She walked forward without waiting for Percival to lead her. It might take him half an hour to stop gasping and gaping impotently. Melinda walked into Albus's office, confident that she'd written a masterfully crafted bit of sports journalism.

"I brought my first article," Melinda said. "Would you like to read it?"

Albus nodded from behind his desk and offered Melinda a seat. "Straight to business then," he said. "I'd love to read it."

Melinda hadn't really expected Albus to read the article on the spot, but he set to work pursuing the document immediately. She sat quietly, wondering if he would accept the whole document. She had worked hard to include something more substantial than just a sports article, but it had been hard to slip it in unobtrusively. In the back of her mind, she was counting on Albus's well-known senility to allow the politics in. Occasionally a smile or a laugh would betray his reaction to the piece, but he didn't say anything until he'd completed the work entirely. Stroking his beard absently, he smiled, a sparkling mischievous grin. "I've never been more enthralled by a discussion of the intricacies of Twiddle Ball. I particularly enjoyed the section where you likened the Peppermint's fouling repeatedly to the Emperor's activities in recent months." Albus stared at her, his expression hardening. "It's not exactly subtle, is it, Melinda?"

So much for senility saving her... "You don't have to publish it," she said stiffly. "I thought you'd read my portfolio. You knew who I was when you offered me this position."

The smile crept back over Albus's face, and he nodded. "You're right, and I'd like to publish this for you. As a matter of fact, I'd like you to write an article for every edition of my newsletter. I am a long-time fan of your work." He paused and stared into her eyes searchingly. "I consider this a favour between friends, a favour that perhaps someday you'll be inclined to return."

Heading out of the office, Melinda felt nothing short of stunned. Albus Dumbledore was going to publish her article, all her articles, not because he was too senile to note the politics either. He had called it a favour that he expected returned. Melinda couldn't help wondering, what a man like Albus might expect her, a retired public works governor, to do?

* * *

The sun was shining, birds were singing, and twenty brooms were lined up like matchsticks on the ground. They were slick-handled and obviously in good repair. It was all Harry could do to hold in his giddy excitement at the sight of them. The group home had half a dozen broken-down brooms that had been donated approximately a million years ago. Though the older kids generally monopolized everything worth having, Harry managed to try his hand at flying a couple of times. Those few minutes on a broom that was incapable of getting more than ten feet off the ground had been enough to convince Harry that flying was going to be amazing. He suspected that it might be his favourite part of magic.

With some effort, Harry tore his eyes away from the brooms long enough to gauge his classmates' excitement. Draco's ever-confident demeanour hadn't been affected by the possibility of flying. Hermione on the other hand seemed decidedly less enthusiastic. She stared at the brooms unblinking as though she thought one might rear up and bite her. Harry leaned towards her and whispered, "It really isn't hard. You'll be fine."

Their instructor, a grey-haired lady with ferocious-looking eyes, stood at the head of the line of brooms, and she motioned them forward. "I am Madam Hooch," she declared. "Today we will go through the basics of flight by broom. I want a show of hands. How many of you have flown on a broom before?"

Almost everyone raised their hands. Hermione, Val, and Lisa were the only completely inexperienced first years. "The three of you who haven't flown, follow me. I have some beginner instructions for you," Madam Hooch said. "Then I'll deal with the rest of you."

Over his shoulder, Harry could hear Neville muttering nervously to Millicent. "My dad taught me to fly this summer, but I'm bloody terrible. I almost killed myself twice before he decided I wasn't going to be playing Quidditch for anyone."

Smirking, Draco turned to Harry. "I can't wait to get up there," he whispered. "I'll be playing Quidditch for Western Europe before I'm out of school, mark my words."

"Really?" Harry said. "What position?"

Draco shrugged, looking rather confident. "As Seeker is really the most important position and I come from a long line of Quidditch players, I think it would suit me. Do you intend to play, Green?

"Of course I intend to play. Who wouldn't want to play? I always fancied being a Beater." Harry thumped Ron lightly on the shoulder and stared at him questioningly. "Hey, what position are you going to play on my Quidditch team?" But Ron just gave him a disgusted look and stared down at the brooms that they were expected to fly. He looked a little green. Probably nervous, Harry thought.

"Your Quiddicth team, Green?" Draco asked. "That's spoken like a man who thinks he'll be captaining the team. I think we both know who the leader in our class is."

"We do? You think I'm a leader?" Harry asked. "Thanks."

Before Draco could retort, Madam Hooch whistled loudly. "Attention!" she called. "Everyone report to a broom. Do exactly as I say and this will be very simple."

And it was fairly simple. Madam Hooch was careful to keep the fliers close to earth, circling languidly. It was enough to drive a guy mad, Harry thought. The first exhilaration of having a broom loft him into the air was the best part of the lesson. Madam Hooch's slow instruction technique had turned the experience mind-numbing. If he spent another moment staring at the back of Draco's head, he was going to lose his mind.

"That's enough for today," Madam Hooch announced. "Land your brooms, carefully!"

Harry just managed to hold in an inappropriate laugh at some of the careful landings. Neville came down too fast and almost tumbled over the end of his broom, while Hermione actually caused a minor mid-air collision with Ron on her descent. Harry had no more trouble getting to the ground than he had getting into the air, and he noticed with a smile that Draco wasn't a complete disgrace on a broom either. Maybe they really would end up playing Quidditch together eventually?

"Listen carefully." Madam Hooch propped her hands on her hips and waited for the students to gather themselves. "The following students will remain for Quidditch orientation: Green, Malfoy, and Turpin. The rest of you can head in to dinner."

"Quidditch orientation?" Harry asked.

Standing forlornly with a dumbfounded expression plastered on his face, Ron answered. "It's not common knowledge but they pick potential Quidditch players on day one flying lessons. Something about judging who has enough natural ability on a broom to bother with training."

"Why didn't you say something?" Harry stared at Ron, stricken that he hadn't shared that bit of important information with him. "We flew in circles for half an hour. How could they tell anything from that?"

Draco sniggered and shrugged. "Obviously, it's a very accurate process. They recognized my brilliance."

"Unrelenting arrogance is a skill, and you are brilliant at it," Harry replied quickly. The rest of the class had started their trek back to the school, but Ron lingered behind. Quidditch was very important to him, and he wasn't on the list of people headed to orientation. Maybe the collision with Hermione had sealed the deal for him? Or maybe he just didn't have the natural flying ability?

"I guess I should go," Ron said. "Good luck, Harry, Lisa... Draco."

Harry didn't know what to say as Ron turned to leave. He was so excited to be headed to Quidditch orientation, but he felt like a complete berk for feeling it while Ron was being turned away. Long before Ron was out of earshot, Draco threw an arm around Harry's shoulders and crowed smugly, "Dry your eyes, Green. Your little friend Weasley just doesn't have the natural flying ability to go in a circle efficiently."

"Do you think you could be any more insensitive?" Harry asked. He turned toward Draco and tried to glare sternly, but he couldn't contain his burgeoning excitement. His stern glare turned rapidly into a glowing grin. "We're going to Quidditch orientation."

"Simply...amazing..." For her part, Lisa managed to look completely disinterested with her Quidditch potential. "So what do we have to do now? I have studying to do tonight."

"You've just been selected for Quidditch training," Harry said. He stared at Lisa as though she had grown another head. "You'd rather go study than play Quidditch?"

"We just proved that we have enough spatial awareness to fly and chew gum at the same time. You really think they're going to put us on the continent's Quidditch team? They're going to train us for a decade and then we'll go out into the world to do our jobs, and Quidditch will be something we wasted three days a week on when we could have been doing more important things." Lisa crossed her arms over her chest and pouted her lips, a picture of royal disdain.

"You'll never make the team with the attitude," Harry said.

Madam Hooch led the three of them to a transportation circle and gestured for them to enter it. "Now, Quidditch Orientation can be a little intense. Just do what you're told and try not to fall off your broom."

Harry noticed that Lisa didn't ask Madam Hooch if they could refuse Quidditch training. Watching her gaze at them all docilely, he wondered how much of the things she said that she really meant. Was the calm compliant face she presented to Madam Hooch real? Did she mean it when she said she wanted nothing to do with Quidditch? It was the first time Harry had really looked at Lisa Turpin more than superficially, and he was intrigued. _Who are you?_ he was tempted to ask, before they were swept away to a new place.

The transportation circle brought them to a Quidditch pitch, Harry realized when he spotted the fifty-foot tall goal posts to his right and left. There were nearly a dozen first year kids here. Class II, III, and IV sent Quidditch hopefuls as well. Harry recognized some of the kids from the group home, and he couldn't help smiling. Apparently Quidditch was an equalizer.

"All right, kiddies," a bushy-browed man said. "My name is Boris Eaton. You can call me Coach Boris. I'm going to put you through your paces today." He looked from one side to the other, where the students had clumped together according to Class. "Bunch up!" he bellowed. "Class I and Class IV don't matter here. Brooms, balls, and goals are all I care about."

After a moment's hesitation, the groups came forward into one conglomeration. Coach Boris was a tall man with dark frizzy hair and a wild-looking moustache. Harry couldn't quite imagine the man getting his bulky frame into the air on a broom and moving at anything but a snail's pace. How did he plan to put them through their paces if he couldn't keep up with the action?

"All right, children, you all know what Quidditch is?" He waited for everyone to nod. "You all probably have a position you think you're going to play? What about you?" He pointed to Lisa, the only student who hadn't acknowledged his questions with a nod or shake of the head.

"Sir," she said, "I expect to make an excellent...Beater."

"Well, I expect most of you don't know what you're good at or why." He pointed to Lisa. "I want you on Chaser to start. You and you, Keepers." He pointed to the kids surrounding him, seemingly at random giving them positions. He declared Draco a Beater and Harry a Chaser. Finally he pointed in one direction. "Give me one Keeper, three chasers, a couple of Beaters, and a Seeker, pronto.

Once a team's worth of players made their way to the right, Coach Boris turned back to the remaining students. "You're short a Chaser. So, play harder." With a wave of his wand he turned the smaller team's robes green. Then he turned to the other group and turned their robes yellow. "Strategize for a second. Then we're starting."

Harry looked down at his green robes and smirked. They would spend tryouts short a man, just his luck. Draco had claimed one of the Beater bats and was brandishing it with obvious annoyance. Harry shrugged at him and turned to Lisa. "You may not be excited to be here, but I want to make a good showing. We're Chasers for the moment and we need to work together. Are you good at throwing a ball? Are you very accurate?"

Efficiently wrapping her long black hair into a braid, Lisa shook her head. "I haven't done this before at all. Have you?"

"Not really," Harry said, "but I'm fairly good at Twiddle ball and there is a lot of throwing accuracy involved. I think I could get a Quaffle through one of those hoops, maybe." They didn't get any more time to strategize. Coach Boris sent them into the air.

"Play!" he bellowed. Bludgers, Snitch, and Quaffle went flying into the air, and the inexperienced first years scrambled to cope with their aspect of the game. The Quaffle had risen to their height and was falling again, before any of the Chasers started after it. Harry glanced around at the chaos of nearly two teams of hopelessly inexperienced first years trying to play Quidditch for a moment. Then he dove after the Quaffle.

After three hours of chaos-Quidditch, the two teams were exhausted, bruised, battered, and ready for retirement. Barely seventy points had been scored between them and neither Seeker had made any progress toward finding the Snitch. Coach Boris paced the pitch in front of his assembled players and twitched his nose. He stopped in front of Harry. "How many times did you see the Snitch while you were playing as Chaser?"

How did Coach Boris know he'd spotted the Snitch? Harry flexed his jaw where a stray Bludger had caught him and loosened a tooth. "Two or three times."

"Go get it for me," Coach Boris said. The other balls were tucked safely away but the Snitch was still at large.

Harry didn't argue with his coach, though he was quite sure the man was going to discard the lot of them with they performance they'd managed. He flew straight up and began searching for the Snitch. It was growing late and Harry instinctively flew to keep his back to the sun. The process seemed much easier without the Bludgers and twelve other fliers. He was circling away from the sun again, when he spotted the Golden Snitch. It was fluttering just over one of the goal posts. Anxious to finally just be done with the interminable tryout, Harry chased the Snitch around the goal posts over the pitch and into a short dive.

With the golden ball struggling against his fingers, Harry returned to land and approached the other students. They all had powder-blue Quidditch robes. Harry peered at Lisa's set. They had her name and position blazoned across the back, Turpin Beater. Mouth-agape, Harry watched as Coach Boris adorned another set of robes with his wand and tossed them at him.

Green Seeker.

"How did he choose our positions?" Harry hissed at Draco. "We were flying around like wounded chickens up there."

Draco was staring at his robes that marked him as a Beater. "That's a very good question, Green."

Lisa had already folded her robes. She turned a cocky smile on her classmates. "Legilimency, of course. I felt him nosing around in my head."

"Are you kidding? I'd have felt someone in my head," Draco snarled. "No one read my mind."

"Oh, so you're a trained Occlumens?" Lisa asked. "Please. You're just annoyed that he made you a Beater."

Harry stepped between the two of them and interjected before their argument could become any more heated. "If we didn't feel him in our heads, how did you?"

Lisa rolled her eyes and shrugged. She could try explaining to the boys that Occlumency was a survival skill on the third tier. She could try to explain that she'd been mastering that skill since her mother could detect a spark of magic in her. But she preferred to let them wonder at her innate mental prowess. "Some of us are more self-aware."

Harry hung back with Draco and let Lisa head to the transportation circle alone. "Do you think she's serious? He was in our heads?"

Draco looked up, fury burning in his eyes. Harry felt a sinking in his stomach, and he thought he knew why Draco was angry. Since the first day of school everything had gone Harry's way, and Draco had been systematically denied every goal he had. Draco said that he expected to be a Seeker, but Harry had received that position. "Why are you angry?"

"I'm not annoyed that he made me a Beater or even that he read my mind." Draco shoved his robes under his arm and leaned closer to Harry. "You weren't there when he was assigning the rest of us positions, but he assigned us numbers too, based on relative skill. Chaser one and Chaser two... and he made me Beater three! Three? THREE! Lisa is Beater two, and some nobody from Class IV, Finnigan is Beater one."

"Really?" Harry asked. "They rank everything. What number Seeker am I?"

"Zero," Draco snorted and shook his head. "You're the only Seeker he picked. Congratulations."

* * *

A fire was roaring in the first-year's primary study room. Hermione sat quietly in front of the hearth, staring at her Spell Casting homework without writing. To her right Ron was gazing into the fire. He hadn't said more than two words since their flying lesson, and she had a good idea why. Quidditch was important to him, and he hadn't been selected for training. Hermione frowned darkly, wondering if he blamed her for his exclusion. She hadn't meant to hit him when trying to land. It was an accident! Why wasn't he talking to her? "Are you angry with me?" Hermione blurted.

Ron started and turned toward her. "Angry with you? You mean over Quidditch? Nah, I'm not really as upset as I thought I'd be. The two people who would have given me heck for not making it to training aren't here to care." Ron smiled but it wasn't a happy expression. "I guess it just made me think about Fred and George. I wonder where they are, and what they're doing. Did I tell you that George took an apprenticeship?"

* * *

The spring mud was sticky and thick. The grass hadn't come back yet, but the winter freeze had released the earth, creating a terrible sucking, pudding consistency on the forest road. George trudged through the muck, his feet carrying approximately two tons of mud with every step. He had accepted Dumbledore's offer of an apprenticeship, and with it the stipulation that he walk to the Master Wizard's dwelling. Apparently Alastor Moody didn't accept magical modes of transportation anywhere near his home.

There was a tiny Muggle hovel just ahead with a steady plume of smoke wafting from its crooked chimney. George stared, wondering if perhaps he'd found Moody's home? Appearances could be deceiving where wizards were concerned, and he was supposed to be close to his destination according to the map he'd been given. Putting on a burst of speed, George trudged toward what might be his new home for a little while.

He reached the door, which seemed to be hanging lopsided in its frame. The wood was grey and rotten with lichen clinging slimly in its crevices. Not for the first time, George wished that he hadn't signed the magical contract binding him to this wizard sight unseen. What if he was mad? George gritted his teeth and marshalled his courage. He raised his hand to pound on the door, but it swung open moments before he would have touched it. Stepping cautiously into the doorway, George peered inside. A warm, orange glow from a roaring fire filled the room. Unlike the dodgy looking exterior, the inside seemed snug, secure, and if not inviting, at least not leaky. Odd trinkets, charms and pendants littered every surface of the cabin. Gadgets that he couldn't identify were propped in the corners. "Hello?" George called. "Is anyone here?"

"Scourgify your boots, young man," a gruff voice called. "Then get yourself out of my doorway. You're letting the cold in."

George hastened to comply, digging his wand out of his pocket. His hand shook a bit from the cold and his nerves, but he managed the spell without exploding his boots. Closing the door behind himself, George turned searching the room for the voice that had invited him in. A stiffly extended leg was all he could see of whoever was seated in a high-backed armchair resting close to the fire.

With a dramatic grunt and heave, that knocked the chair back several feet, the man rose and shuffle-stepped around. George stared uncomprehending for a few seconds. The man's face was a travesty of coursing scars that flowed over his face like haphazard tributaries. His right eye, a dark squinty orb stared at him, and the left, a wildly rotating huge eye seemed to be looking everywhere.

"Mr. Weasley, I've been expecting you. You may call me Professor Moody. I don't subscribe to all the Master stuff, though you have signed your life away until your nineteen," he growled, and shuffled forward another pace. "First lesson, signing your life away to a wizard you haven't even met is a stupid thing."

"I signed my life away because you were supposed to be a link to the rebellion. You're supposed to help me." George shrugged off his pack and stood his ground stubbornly.

"I'm here to teach you. When you're competent enough to face what's out there waiting for you, the Rebellion might have use of you," Moody said. "As is you wouldn't survive a fortnight."

"I don't have time," George snapped.

"You don't have time? Do you remember lesson one?" Moody bellowed. "You signed an enforceable magical contract. You don't have a CHOICE."

* * *

**Author's Note: **

Well, this chapter took a while but it flowed very naturally. If I hadn't rewritten once it would have been out sooner. I feel like a distinct dual trio is developing in this universe. You have the traditional, Ron/Hermione/Harry and the new, Harry/Draco/Lisa. Harry is the hinge between the two. Anyhow, hope that the Quidditch doesn't drag too terribly. Next chapter should find Lily back to work, Sirius having a little fun, and the kids finishing up their classes for the term.


	14. Acceptable Measures

**Chapter 13 -- Acceptable Measures **

History of the World Volume II Chapter 4 The Rule of Turpin – Ignorance Is Inexcusable

_  
...In a well publicised precedent Andrew Davis, a second tier wizard, was summarily executed on 31-11-1480. His crime was committed whilst touring the third tier Justice House on a winter sabbatical. He approached a young woman and propositioned her. While this is normally acceptable behaviour, Davis's choice in women was poor. She was wearing her third tier armband though it wasn't quite visible amongst her voluminous robes. The witch in question was a favourite of the Emperor, and her companions killed Davis without compunction. His act was performed from ignorance, but ignorance offers no mitigation. As you see in another case, ignorance is taken into account, but isn't used to defray the punishment...

* * *

_

Two hundred and seventy three feet of parchment wasn't a report -- it was a novel, and ninety percent of Remus's report was a list, a compilation of people that would have the knowledge or power to betray the rebellion to Oscasia. All the men and women on his list had the opportunity to take the role of that South American priest and sell the children. Whether any of them had or would, the rebellion would have to discover for itself. He had places to be and ghosts to banish.

One of his ghosts was standing with him, staring at the ungainly mound of papers as though she couldn't quite fathom its size. Lily turned to him and smiled half-heartedly. "I can't believe you're leaving just as we're finishing the paperwork. Don't you want to see how this all turns out?"

"I would say this part of the investigation is internal. I was an outsource from the beginning. Tell Albus that I should be available for more work in a few months if he needs me. He knows my rates." Now that the moment of leaving had come, Remus didn't know what to do with the ghost of his first crush. Should he shake Lily's hand like a co-worker, hug her like a friend, or stalk away blushing as if he was fourteen again? Lily answered that question for him. She stepped up and hugged him firmly.

"It has been so much fun working with you, Remus. Please be careful. I'm sure every job you take isn't quite so full of paperwork and devoid of action," Lily said. "You have to visit again soon, or at least write so that we all know you're okay, promise."

"Of course," Remus said. It was easier now that Lily had hugged him. He could feel the ghost releasing him even before he took a handful of Floo Powder and headed for the hearth. He cast the powder into the fire and stepped into the warm green licking flames. "Gabe's Hut."

Lily watched the fire until it had burned back to a normal orange. Then she turned to the job Remus had left her. She and that pile of parchment had a meeting to report to.

* * *

They all had red wands.

A line of Vietnamese dancing witches moved in graceful synchronicity, their wands emitting a steady ribbon of curling, languid light. They wore pink and red silk robes, perfectly fitted to their petite forms. Slit dramatically up the side, the dresses revealed long tan legs with every graceful step. Their thick, black hair was scooped up into dramatic coiffures. Their eyes were outlined in black and painted with shocking pinks and yellows. They seemed out of place in the bar, a flock of colourful birds in a dim, smoky cage.

Leaning low in his seat, Edgar half listened to Walter mumbling about the pretty dancers. Now that the show was ending he tore his eyes away from the stage to watch their commander, Sirius. He just caught the connection, when the commander locked eyes with one of the dancers. There was an exchange of smiles and Edgar could have sworn the girl blushed under all her stage paint. Finishing his cup of sake, Sirius barely nodded to his companions before heading toward the backstage area.

They'd been in Vietnam for nearly a week, shacking up in The Red Fan, a rebel friendly brothel. Some, like their commander, had made ample use of their time. Edgar watched Sirius go to the enchanted door that barred entry to all those who might try to enter without permission. Absently, he wondered how the commander managed to pick up girls who didn't speak English. Being tall, handsome and foreign seemed to help matters. Not everyone was enjoying their lodgings to their fullest extent though. The Admiral who'd been tagging along with them, Potter, only left his rooms to train. Ignoring a free dancing show like that was wasteful to Edgar's way of thinking.

The next act, a pair of singing girls in short blue dresses, scuttled out onstage and batted their long curled lashes at the men. Edgar sighed, and just listened to them sing.

* * *

Upstairs, in one of their cramped dusty rooms, James leaned low over a small distorted mirror. Albus stared up at him. "I honestly don't see why you can't just pull me for this internal investigation and leave Sirius where he is. He's mastered this niche work, and his soldiers would walk through fire for him. They barely know me."

Albus just shook his head and spoke softly. "You simply have to trust my judgement in this. I need Sirius Black, and no other will do."

"I'll send him tonight then." The mirror went dark, but James continued to stare into its depths for several seconds, his own face now staring back at him through the wavy glass. Was it foolish to continue taking Albus's word that his strange actions had meaning? Why did he need Sirius? What was Sirius going to do that James couldn't? The real question, that of Albus's competency, bothered him most. If they lost their chief executive authority, there wasn't anyone standing in the wings to take over.

James headed downstairs and waded into the smoky bar. Today he was prepared to continue following Albus's directives. And for the moment, that was all that really mattered.

Across the room, near to the stage a small, inebriated lot of Sirius's men were enjoying the live show. James headed their way and took the only vacant seat.

"If it isn't the admiral, finally come down to mix with the little people," Edgar mumbled. He raised his cup of spirits in a parody of a welcoming manner. "What can we do for you, Sir?"

"I suggest you refrain from tossing ranks about blithely in mixed company," James said quietly. "Where's Sirius?"

One of the other soldiers, Philip, coughed and nodded toward the backstage entrance. "He's entertaining at the moment."

"Entertaining? Again?" James slumped lower in his seat and tried not to be annoyed with Sirius. The man had needs, and all too often they went secondary to the responsibilities and the rebellion. Well, maybe it was because he hadn't seen Lily for months that James found himself so terribly frustrated. The dream she'd brewed for Christmas had been pleasant at the time, but it was little more than a tease really. Spending every night in a brothel and enduring the sounds that leaked through the thin walls was not helping his frustration either. Why did he ever send Lily away?

Because it was dangerous.

Because he had to protect her.

The waitress snatched up their empty glasses and tried to interpret the sign language of the inebriated English rebels. James caught her eye, and pointed two fingers at an empty glass. Sirius's_ business_ hopefully wouldn't take too long. James knew better than to try to get backstage without an invitation. The protective wards on that door were no joke.

A marvel of efficiency, the waitress returned with a full tray balanced on her dainty wrist. She chattered at them in incomprehensible Vietnamese and hurried away.

"Didn't any of you bring a translation conch down?" James asked. "How do you know what they're saying?"

Staring up at the stage, Edgar shook his head. "I don't care what they're saying."

* * *

There was no time for languid, satiated spooning backstage at The Red Fan. Sirius only managed to hold his dancing bird for a few extra moments before she had slipped away from him and started dressing for her next trip onstage. This time it was a purple dress with intricate orange beading. He watched her primp, fastening dozens of tiny clasps with dexterity his thick fingers would be hard pressed to match. Twisting her hair back up, she spared a moment to smile at Sirius and then she was gone out the door. With a sigh, he dressed himself and made his way back toward the main floor.

Pai had invited him back three times now, and he knew from experience that the only way he was going to catch another glimpse of her, was if he saw her final dance. Sirius had never been in this kind of relationship before. Pai wanted him for exactly thirty minutes at a time, no conversation, no residual closeness. He only knew her name from hearing a stage grip shouting at her. A dull sort of epiphany struck and Sirius had to wince at the pitiful state of his romantic affairs. Three entertaining evening visits with a girl that he couldn't even understand was the closest thing to a relationship he'd managed in years. How pitiful was that?

The main floor was crowded, nearly every table full. Sirius spotted his men quickly, but his seat had been taken. James was out drinking with a few of the boys. A grin crept onto Sirius's face. He respected James' marriage, but going out drinking and wenching hadn't been the same since he and Lily became exclusive. Sirius strolled over and crouched down next to James. "Enjoying yourself?"

James looked his way and shrugged. "Just waiting for you to finish your business backstage. We need to talk, Casanova."

"Is that disapproval? It's just a wench in a bar. Why so angry?" Sirius asked.

James rose and shot him an annoyed look. "We need to talk. If you're through sowing your oats..." He headed for the exit without sparing another word for Sirius. The air outside was cool and clean-tasting. James hated the brothel, the town, everything about their hiding place. It rankled him that Sirius would be escaping it. "This place is stifling. And the food, if they serve me anything else raw, I swear..."

"You swear, what?" Sirius asked. James wasn't the only one feeling a bit affronted. With a frown, he crossed his arms over his chest. "You dragged me out here to complain about the food? You can't blame the restaurant because you don't know what you're ordering. That distasteful brothel is willingly harbouring a rather large lot of rebels."

"I didn't come out here to talk about the food," James said. "We're out here because you're heading back to England while I have to stay here. Albus wants you, and he needs you immediately."

"You have to be kidding. After all that nonsense about not taking my command, you're taking my command." Sirius paced away then spun back toward James. "Does Albus have a reason, or is this just plain insanity?"

"I'm sure he has his reasons for leaving me here with a bunch of mismatched Animagi while you're heading home to work with MY Lily," James said. He and Sirius held each other's gaze for a long moment. "I couldn't talk Albus into using me instead. Believe me, I tried."

"Lily?" Sirius asked. "Why does he need me?" With a calculated shake of his head Sirius sighed. "If Albus Dumbledore is losing his mind, we can't follow him anymore. He needs to start making a little more sense, James...soon."

* * *

Examinations were finally over. Now, with nothing hanging over their heads, the student body had flooded out of the school to walk in the sun and breathe the summer air before the end of term carried them home. Harry leaned back against a budding beech tree and stared up at the gray stone building that housed the Class I school. Like a moldering Parthenon, it crouched on its hillside blocking the afternoon sun. Hermione sat under a different tree to his right, paging slowly through an oversized Transfiguration text. She seemed most at peace in moments like that, alone with a book.

In the air, zooming about with a pair of Beater bats, Draco and Lisa were practicing one of the Quidditch drills Coach had given them. They were batting around a large light weight ball, keeping it aloft and on course. Harry watched them drill for several minutes, but his eyes drooped shut.

"Please someone deliver me from snogging seniors!" Ron exclaimed. He took a seat and sprawled lazily on the grass by Harry. "I swear they're in the bushes, behind the doors, in the wardrobes. You'd think there wasn't anything better to do."

Yawning, Harry shrugged. "There isn't anything to do, unless you want to join the book brigade with Hermione. If I owned my own broom we could go flying like those two, but the school brooms aren't available, end of term servicing. Do you own a broom?"

"Nah, my Mum thought it was frivolous and would distract me from school. Want to play chess?" Ron asked.

"Somehow, losing to you at chess has begun to wear thin. Let's go exploring toward the senior's part of the school. We need to know what the second-year's dorms are like anyway, and I'd really like to see how the ninth-years live." Harry stretched and rolled to his feet. "Come on."

"We're just going to get hexed," Ron moaned.

"I thought you said all the seniors were in the bushes snogging. It's the perfect time," Harry said. "Come ON."

The dormitory was the biggest of the school buildings, broad and thick. Ron always thought the columns out front looked like a mouth filled with too-straight teeth grinning at him. Reluctantly, he rose and followed Harry toward the toothy building. The first floor held the Great Hall, the ballroom, and other gathering chambers. The second floor was for the first, second, and third years sleeping quarters. To check out the ninth-year's dorms, a daring first year would have to make it all the way to the fifth floor without being hexed to oblivion. Harry was already pounding the stone steps, as though they weren't on a suicide mission. With a heavy sign, Ron followed. Maybe they wouldn't get that far before the hexing started. Being hexed by a fourth-year would be far less painful than being hexed by a ninth-year.

True to his word, Harry stopped at the second-year's dorm first. A swathe of colour on the centre of the door proclaimed the new accent colour they'd be enjoying next year, buttercup yellow. Harry pushed the door open and peeked inside. A half dozen or so second-years were gathered together talking. A boy that he knew, Spencer, waved him over. "Hey, Harry, who's your friend? Come to check out your new digs for next year?"

"Hope you like yellow," a girl with exotic oriental eyes said.

"What are you guys doing cooped up in here? The sun is shining and all the sane people are outside enjoying it." Ron spared Harry a dark look before continuing. "I mean classes are over, aren't they?"

"We have a meeting with Professor Riddle," Spencer said. "He's on the market for an apprentice, you know. And we're all up for the job."

"Really?" Harry asked. "He's just considering second years then?"

"Yeah. Apparently, he's been on the market for the last five years, the entire time he's been teaching here," Spencer replied. "Who knows what he's looking for?"

"I'll tell you what he's looking for, me," Ginger Cupit said. "We're going to be late, Spencer. Get rid of the first-years and let's go."

Harry spun in the room once taking in the dorm which was virtually identical to their current quarters and grinned. "We're going. Good luck with Riddle, guys."

Watching the second-years tromp down the stairs, Harry and Ron loitered in the hall. "A bloke would have to be mental to accept an apprenticeship from Professor Riddle. You saw what he did to Draco. The man's unstable," Ron said. "If he offered it to me, I'd tell him no thanks."

"I'd accept it," Harry said without hesitation. "If you're apprenticed to a third tier wizard you get the silver armband at the age of fifteen, no questions asked. The benefits are completely worth the risk."

"Sometimes, I think you have a really underdeveloped survival sense, Harry. And while we're on the topic of your death wish." Ron planted his feet and frowned. "I think going to the fifth floor is a bad idea. It's pointless. We're just going to get turned into slugs."

"It's an adventure," Harry said. "What's an adventure without a little danger?"

* * *

An impressive pile of scrolls glowed a faint purple in front of the Potter's hearth. With Lily supervising, the scrolls filed into a black carpetbag. Obviously enchanted for storage, the bag should have been full long before even a quarter of the scrolls had been stowed.

Sirius watched her work, neither interfering or commenting on her choice in receptacles. He might not have known why Albus sent him to aid in the rebellion's internal investigation when he left Vietnam, but after fifteen minutes alone with Lily and her master list, he had a good idea. James was a powerful wizard, a great leader, but unlike Sirius, he only spent a few months under Moody's tutelage. Lily's list required investigation and interrogation, two skills any true apprentice of Moody's was guaranteed to be uniquely qualified in.

"We'll need to move quickly, efficiently, and with complete secrecy. We don't want the culprits to know we're looking for them. We can't have a warning go out before we're done." Sirius mentally catalogued the spells and potions he was likely to need for this internal housecleaning. At the top of his list were Veritaserum, and a concise memory charm to keep them from blabbing about the investigation.

"Well I have a good recipe on Veritaserum," Lily said. "What else will we need?"

A grim smile on his face, Sirius shook his head. "We'll be using Master Moody's recipe for Veritaserum, and a memory charm to make sure we finish this in proper secrecy."

"Of course." Lily found she couldn't hold Sirius's gaze tonight. After finding out their mission, his demeanor had cooled. She'd never seen her husband's normally boisterous friend this sullen and withdrawn. Perhaps it was the size of the list that had disheartened him? "I can do this myself, you know, if the work isn't to your liking. I know it isn't as exciting as a mission in the field, but it's important." Then Sirius actually laughed at her.

"If you could do this job yourself, I wouldn't be here," he said. Lily glared at him indignantly, but Sirius just shrugged. "Not being able to do this job is a compliment." Sirius rubbed at his temples, mentally cataloguing other spells that he might need over the course of so many interrogations. Most of them inflicted pain mentally or physically to force truth and details from a clear mind, un-fogged by the inebriating effects of Veritaserum. "Where do we begin?"

"I'm surprised you're willing to let me decide, since I'm too incompetent to interrogate a suspected traitor. Administering Veritaserum and performing a memory charm aren't exactly beyond my reach."

"No, you're quite competent. But what about your experience? Consoul Sorcia?" Sirius asked. "Or how about Firos De Crimen? Crucio? They are very useful interrogation curses, Lily, rudimentary really. Have you ever cast a curse with intent to torture?" Though he spoke forcefully, there was no anger in his voice. Lily had paled. She recognized some of the words of power even if she hadn't ever learned the curses. "When I find our traitor or traitors...Veritaserum and a memory charm will be just the beginning. Now, where do we start?"

With only a moment's hesitation Lily summoned one of the scrolls from the dwindling pile. Had she considered that there would be interrogation and torture ahead? Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew even before Sirius spoke the names of the curses he would use. Torture was distasteful, but if one of their comrades had even considered selling children to Oscasia, Lily thought she might be able to cast the torture curses herself, however squeamish Sirius thought her "I've always made it a point to start at the beginning." With her hands steady and her voice clear, Lily read, "Atwood, Patrick."

* * *

Immobile as a statue, George Weasley stood on the path that led off of Moody's mountain. He couldn't move for a simple reason. Professor Moody forbade him to leave and George was ready to go. The magical contract he signed gave Moody the power to command. If invoked, George could no more deny the order than he could decide to stop breathing. He'd pitted his will against the contract for the entire day, pushing forward with every ounce of mental energy he possessed, but his limbs refused to move.

George heard the door creak open behind him and a patch of light cut into the darkness. "If you're through pushing that mountain, dinner is ready."

Moody had made the same offer at breakfast and lunch, but George had been sure that he could throw off the compulsion. If a strong-willed wizard could throw off the Imperius curse, couldn't one throw off a contractually bound order? Apparently he couldn't...and light wasn't the only thing escaping from Moody's hovel. Aromatic spices wafted toward him on the breeze, torturing his deprived stomach.

Like snuffing out a candle, the force George had strained against was gone, and he stumbled forward a step. The moment he resolved to stay for another evening the need to restrain him passed. "You should just let me go. We've spent months on defensive blocking and we're getting nowhere. You're wasting your time and mine."

Without acknowledging his pupil's statement, Moody clomped back inside. He took a pair of ceramic bowls to his steaming cauldron and dipped two healthy portions of stew out. "Sit down," Moody commanded. George knew he hadn't invoked their contract as his legs hadn't set off of their own volition, but it bothered him that Moody could, without even trying, order him about like a marionette. "You'll be starving after that vigil."

George watched as Moody tucked into his meal. Nothing seemed to rile the man. He hadn't even raised his voice since their first night together, the night when he scolded George for signing a binding magical contract. In hindsight, it was stupid. He'd relinquished control of his life, but at the time Dumbledore had made it seem so ideal, so easy. It had sounded like escape, but it was just a remote efficient prison. Unable to resist his stomach's protestations any longer, George joined Moody and attacked his meal.

All too soon George found the bottom of the bowl. Settling his spoon on the table he looked up into the ravaged face of his mentor. "You said I could go when I was competent to survive. Well, I'm not learning anything. At this rate I'll never be ready to survive. And I have to go."

"Dying won't help anyone." With a grunt, Moody fished a tarnished silver pendant out of his robe pocket. He hefted it thoughtfully and tossed the jewelry across the table. "Put it on and leave it on."

There wasn't any difference in tone or expression, but this time Moody invoked their contract. As though they didn't belong to him George's hands snaked out and grasped the silver chain. In a smooth motion that he had no control over he slid the pendent into place. Indefinable relief washed over him. The constant pain that had throbbed just beneath his perception every minute of every day since his brother's ordeal began vanished. He had become so used to its constant squeal that he didn't notice it most of the time except when he slept. George sagged as tension he hadn't been properly aware of leaked out of his body. "What is this? What did you do?"

Turning the pendent up for a better look, George saw the recessed carving of a woman, her eyes shut and her hands clasped over her mouth.

"That is a filter charm, to separate you from your brother. It arrived this morning by owl. Maybe you'll be able to concentrate on your lessons now? You master blocking spells and we'll move on to trap detection." Moody leaned over the table, a grin on his face. "Stupid, untalented wizards don't end up in Class I. I expect better from you than the mediocre half-attempts you've made at everything you've tried. Tomorrow is a new day."

The relief began to fade as the guilt hit him. George shook his head. Thanks to Moody's pendent, he was free of the minor inconvenience of his brother's pain. "I don't want this." George let the pendant drop, knowing full well that he would need Moody's permission to remove it. "That pain is the only connection I have to Fred. Maybe that connection is unpleasant for me, but what if it helps him? Professor Moody, I won't try to leave or question you. I won't make another mistake, just please, please...don't make me wear this."

Moody stood slowly and stalked away toward the fire. "You will not leave this mountain until you've learned the skills you need to survive. You want to charge off and help your brother, well put him out of your head for now, or you aren't getting off this mountain till your twentieth birthday when your contract expires."

* * *

Towing his trunk behind him, Ron followed the flood of kids heading for the transportation circles and home. He could see Hermione up ahead, tugging her small, black school-issue trunk. She and Harry would be heading to their group home for the summer, a fate Ron would have pitied a few months earlier. But they had each other, and Harry even had a sister. They were going home where things were going to be the same. Nothing would be the same at the Weasley house. For the first time in his life, Ron was going to be the only child at home. Fred was a red-eyed imperial soldier and George was apprenticed to some hermit. At least his mum would be home. She'd written after the winter holidays to assure her sons that everything was okay and that she was safe. But Ron wouldn't be satisfied until he'd seen her and hugged her.

"Hold up, Ron," Harry said. He managed to squeeze his way through the crowd of trunks and slip into step beside him. There were two small bandages taped to Harry's forehead, covering the last vestiges of the hexes from their ill-fated trip to the dorm's fifth floor. An impressive set of antlers had been rooted under those bits of gauze. "You'll need this. I'm helping Draco hand them out to the people he'd like to come to his birthday celebration this summer." He handed Ron a neatly folded royal-blue envelope.

"Draco wants me to come?" Ron asked. "Why?"

Harry shrugged. "He won't care. I'm supposed to be finding the most annoying, Class IV, hairy-knuckled, group home nobodies and giving them invites."

"And you came to me first? Why doesn't that give me a warm fuzzy feeling?" Ron asked. "What's he planning to do to a bunch of low bred wizards and witches? He's not going to hurt them, is he?"

"I gave you an invite because I'm going, and I thought it might be fun. And no one's going to get hurt. Who do you think I am?" Harry leaned closer to Ron and whispered so that he wouldn't be overheard. "He's trying to make his father angry. Beyond that, I really don't know."

* * *

York could call itself a bright town, with its gleaming stone walls and clean streets devoid of Muggle offal. But if you knew how to look, even the brightest towns had their dark alleys and their unpleasant secrets. York was prettier on the surface, but Remus still had a place here. He ducked down a side street, careful to stay just out of the glow of the street lamps. He tromped up a back stoop and knocked lightly. When the door opened a fraction of a crack, he whispered, "Have you seen my Thestral?"

"Aye, come in then."

The door swung open into a tavern. Heavily-cloaked witches and wizards filled most of the stools, but Remus entered bare-faced and brazen. Yes, there was a warrant against his life, but these people weren't the ones seeking him, and he had no reputation to lose by associating here. He turned to the old wizard who let him in and smiled. "Is my booth occupied?"

"Yes sir," the stooped wizard replied. "Your lady friend arrived a few minutes ago."

Lady friend? Remus had been expecting a guest but not a lady. Captain Nyt was supposed to be a new client. He'd assumed that anyone who commanded a ship of smugglers would be a man. Rather sexist of him, Remus thought with a smirk. Wondering what kind of creature he was going to find in the back booth, he headed over and slid into the seat opposite her.

Though his trained smirk never wavered, Remus was a bit disappointed by the pirate princess fate had sent him. She was an old woman with deep lines set into her leathery sun-weathered skin. Her gray hair hung in loose curls past her waist, a random lock here and their braided and threaded with beads. She smiled a crooked-toothed grin. "What's your name?" Nyt asked. "Little scrap of a man like yerself can't be_ the _Lupin."

"If_ the _Lupin is Remus Lupin, then I am. I must assume that you're Captain Nyt." Remus waved at one of the barmaids and she sauntered over. "A couple of butterbeers, please."

"The Lupin drinks butterbeer?" Nyt chuckled, but didn't order anything harder for herself. She waited for their server to leave. "You ever broke a body out from an imperial holding prison? That's what I'll be paying you to get me in and out of."

Remus didn't say anything at first. He'd been involved in a more than a few jail breaks all over Europe. "I charge by the head. How many are we going in for?" Remus produced a quill and scrawled a figure on his napkin.

"That gold is per head? Ten then," Nyt said. "It's all I can afford."

It didn't pay to offer discounts or to dicker with criminals, but Remus hated the thought of leaving people behind to face the Saharan or Siberian prisons. "How many of your people are in?" Remus asked.

"Twelve," Nyt said. "You get them all and we could work out a barter for the rest of the gold?"

Remus nodded slowly. It didn't pay to dicker or offer discounts, but it never hurt to be owed favours. "A favour for every extra man."

* * *

**Author's Note: **

Apologies on the wait. Hopefully the next chapter will be out in a more timely manner, but I can't make any guarantees at the moment. I've entered a time of personal/professional upheaval. I'm most likely about to move 500 miles southeast for a new job.

Next chapter is one I think you've all been waiting for. Peter will be crawling back onto the canvas...and...well. You'll see.


	15. Rat in a Trap

**Chapter 14 – Rat in a Trap **

History of the World Volume XV Chapter 1 The Rule of Turpin – Rebellion Is Constant

_  
Under a strong government, there will always be dissidents and rebels. Ideally, the rebels in question cause minimal damage to the government's infrastructure and populace. It is unrealistic to think that Rebellion can be stamped out completely. The disaffected need their vehicle with which to shout, beat their chests, and deceive themselves into thinking that things might actually be changed by their efforts...

* * *

_

Severus rolled out of bed before dawn with mathematics on his mind already. After months of numbers he had finally begun to dream about them. Asymptotes and outliers cluttered his subconscious, creating fitful dreams that left him cranky and tired. Paying little to heed to the robes he chose for the day, Severus dressed quickly and headed down to get in a couple of derivatives before breakfast.

But he didn't settle into his daily pattern as usual. His workstation had been tampered with. His parchments had been shifted aside, and a small gold armband had been placed at the centre of his desk. For a long moment Severus was too shocked to comprehend what it might mean. Then he looked toward Mabel's workstation. She was there, perched on her stool and watching him.

"Don't look so surprised." Mabel smiled as she jumped down off her stool. "You've been a great help to me here, and you deserve some recognition of your work. Try it on."

Severus picked up the armband, his fingers trembling slightly despite his determination to maintain absolute calm. He removed his silver armband and dropped it on his desk with a delicate clink. This was it, the end. If he didn't leave now, he wasn't ever going to get another chance. Third tier initiates met with the Emperor as their final ritual. He inspected them, approved them, and offered them their first taste of the elixir of life. As good as his Occlumency was, Severus shuddered to think what a probe from Emperor Turpin would feel like.

It wouldn't do to show Mabel exactly how unwelcome this surprise was, so Severus gave a triumphant sneer. "I am very honoured."

"You should be." With a flick of her wand, Mabel summoned her stool to her side and resumed her perch. Severus couldn't help wondering how such an ample woman could sit comfortably on the tall thin stool she preferred. "You meet the emperor later this morning."

Severus's hand twitched toward the wand in his pocket. It would be exceedingly unwise to face the emperor, his mind filled with sedition as it was. There were protective carvings in the walls here, throughout Mabel's wing of the compound. If he attacked her, he would be trapped, bound in the web of their magic until he could be arrested at the Legion's leisure. Perhaps he could leave her side under the guise of changing robes for his meeting? He had to get away.

"Don't look so green. You have nothing to fear from the emperor. He has been quite pleased with our progress and there are stirrings that we may find the seventh." Mabel grinned gleefully, as though the seventh was a holy grail.

"I should change," Severus said. He gestured at his robes and frowned. "These aren't appropriate."

"Trust me, nothing you own is appropriate," Mabel said. "Relax. They won't care about your robes. We don't have much time, and I want you to know everything, so that you can be thinking about our mission and our problem. Perhaps you'll have something new to offer the emperor when you meet him." Mabel leaned forward, a calculated eager expression on her face. "In the year 957 AD, there was a prophecy..."

* * *

Sheets of rain pelted down, striking the squirrel's naturally water resistant fur. Slipping under a cracked window sill, Edgar, in his squirrel form, scurried inside toward the seclusion of the shadows. He crept forward, using his dextrous fingers to scale a tall bookcase. From the top he scanned the room. Below him two men were playing cards. He listened to them grumble to each other for a moment. Then, satisfied that they were engrossed, he began scanning the room for parchments.

A desk caught his eye, and Edgar tried to judge the distance between his bookcase and his new destination. Jumping it would be easy, but did he want to risk making a noise when he landed? He had backup outside, but it would take them precious seconds to come to his aid. With a delicate twitch of his nose, Edgar decided to err on the side of caution. He scuttled down the bookcase and across the floor to the desk. Sliding under a partially rolled sheet of parchment, he turned so he could see the card players. They had scarcely moved from his first survey of them.

Edgar came out from under the parchments and began examining the documents, looking for his target. Fortunately, squirrel eyes were fairly sharp, if a bit far-sighted, and mostly colour-blind. Edgar didn't have to nose around long before he found his nut. It took all his strength to unroll the intricately marked map he had come to find. A squirrel Animagus had its uses, but carrying the largish documents anywhere wasn't one of them. Instead, Edgar scanned the map, top to bottom, committing salient facts to memory.

His mind so full that his temples throbbed with memorization effort, Edgar glanced at the card players before launching himself at the bookcase and his road to freedom.

* * *

The sun was on the rise, and Pai knew she should be in bed. The dancers had afternoon practice and then a full evening of shows. But she lingered at her window. The rebels from the west had gone out in the evening and they hadn't yet returned. She wondered vaguely what they left to do. Were they stealing or spying or killing?

An owl came swooping into the rear yard and Pai smiled. They were back. Other creatures came: a cougar, a beaver, and an orange tabby cat. A stag, lithe and regal with a squirrel riding its back came last. Pai just restrained a laugh at the ignominious sight. They all made it back safely, well, all but one. Her favourite, the shaggy black dog, had vanished. One night he was there and the next he was gone. He left without a word, not that words had ever been something they exchanged.

Pai didn't remain at the window to watch the Animagi transform. It was a scene she had witnessed many times now. With a sigh, she stretched out on her pallet. It wasn't that she missed her western lover. She had no shortage of lovers when she wanted them. Pai didn't even know the dog's name. It hadn't seemed important before.

Was her dog safe? Had he returned to the West? Why had he left his fellows behind if he was going home?

Was he coming back?

_Lazing about, not sleeping, mooning,_ Pai scolded herself internally. She was a shallow child, obsessing over the toy she couldn't have. Her dog wasn't obsessing over her. He was undoubtedly busy with important matters, possibly checking in with his chubby, inbred western wife or betrothed. The satisfying image of her dog enduring an ugly cow might have sent Pai to sleep... except for the visitor waiting across the hall.

The woman had come after the rebel's departure, an exotic creature to Pai's eyes. She strolled into the brothel with her red hair, green eyes, and sensuous curves. Pai wasn't the only dancer who had been fascinated to glimpse a woman so different from their ethnic norm. But she was the only one struck with immediate paranoid jealousy. Her dog could be married, engaged, involved... and it might not be to an inbred horse.

Scrunching her eyes up, Pai tried to recapture the comforting image of her dog, miserable and pining for her.

She tried to sleep.

* * *

Rain sluicing off his cloak in sheets, James pushed himself up off the ground and spun towards Edgar. "You got it?"

"Yes, sir," Edgar gasped. He pointed to his head. "My memory won't be perfect. I think I'll need a Pensieve to get it out properly."

"We can get you to a Pensieve," James said. He looked around at the other wet and tired Animagi. They stared back at him with disgruntled, almost hostile dissatisfaction. They weren't happy with the replacement leadership, and James didn't really blame them. Their commander was the one who trained them and knew them. Sirius was the one they trusted. "For now, everyone get some rest. Edgar, if you could harvest the memory before you retire, I'll take it now."

"We'll need a bottle," Edgar said.

James groped in his cloak pockets until he found a half empty potion vial. He dumped the contents onto the mud and tossed the bottle to Edgar. "Leave it at my room," James commanded. He looked around at the lingering rebels and he shooed them toward their current headquarters. "Get out of the rain."

Allowing his troops to head in alone, James stood in the rain, the cold wetness redoubling his bone-deep weariness. He wanted to give them ample time to choose their diversions before he entered. He didn't want them to feel pressured to include him. Soldiers needed time away from the command, time to be free, to unwind, and to de-stress. Finally, deeming that enough time had passed, James abandoned the grey, predawn dampness for the dim interior of the Red Fan.

The brothel's less flashy employees were out with the sun, cleaning away the debris of last night's revels. James avoided making eye contact and headed straight for the stairs and his bed. A few hours sleep would clear his head and recharge his spirit. But his room wasn't empty.

"Lily?" James strode across the room, only half-trusting his eyes. "How did you find me? What are you doing here?" As soon as his hands were on her shoulders, and her clean scent was in his nostrils, James irrational doubt vanished. "God, I've missed you."

Lily turned his way, a faint pout on her lips. "You've missed me? Maybe you'll refrain from lying to me and chasing me away in the future?" She let James hold her close, resting her head on his shoulder. "As for what I'm doing here, there's an internal investigation afoot, and you made our list of people with enough information to be dangerous. I'm here to interrogate you. Sirius agreed that I'd be up to this one."

"He would," James laughed. "You're going to interrogate me? What are you investigating, Lily?"

She pushed away from James and settled on the seat at his desk. "You're not seriously a suspect. You just made the list of people with enough information to be dangerous. Sirius is chasing the real leads. We're on the P's: Paulson, Peterson... Potter." Lily sighed and arched an eyebrow. "You may not be a real suspect, but you are staying in a brothel. Have you been a good boy, James?"

"That can't be a serious question," James said.

"You didn't answer it, not a good sign." Lily crossed her arms over her chest. "Do I need to go get the Veritaserum?"

"No," James said. "I've never been more miserable, surrounded by beautiful, loose women. You can interrogate Sirius's Animagi if you don't believe me. They think I'm the biggest prude on the continent."

"Good," Lily said. "I was worried for half a second there."

"Is that it, then? Am I interrogated?"

Lily untied her cloak and smirked at James. "We're just getting started, Mr. Potter."

* * *

A party, wild and raucous, broiled across the main hall of Malfoy Manor. Above the mayhem, two young wizards sat together in a balcony, sipping pumpkin juice. Harry turned to Draco. "Is it all you hoped for? I invited the worst berks in the group home, even told them you were hoping for a rough party."

"Perfect," Draco said. "There are some things you can ignore, and some things that have to be commented on."

The sound of shattering glass tinkled up from below and Harry winced. "I know your father has been giving you the silent treatment, and I know you intend to force him into breaking that silence, but are you sure you want this kind of attention?"

"I know what I'm doing," Draco said. "You brought the riff raff, and thanks to a little favour from Lisa, not a single respectable wizard or witch showed up. My cousins aren't even here."

"What did Lisa do? I didn't know she was helping." Harry drank the last of his pumpkin juice and craned his neck around so that he could see what a group of the revellers were pulling out of a closet. It looked like a stuffed and mounted Yeti. "What do you mean no one respectable came? Aren't I respectable? I may not have family connections, but I am top of my class."

Draco smirked dismissively. "On my request, Lisa let it be known that she wasn't coming to my birthday party, and she didn't think anyone else should either," Draco said. "The name Turpin has enough weight to keep everyone away, even your little friend Ronnie. As for your respectability, you're the number one in our class, but you aren't top of the class. The savage scraped that designation out, or didn't you read the final class ranking for the year."

"True, maybe I'm not respectable enough to skip your party. Should I join the riff raff?" Harry asked. "Those fellows levitating the bust of Venus seem to be having fun."

"Please," Draco spluttered. "You may not be respectable enough to skip this party, but you aren't nearly tough enough to mix freely."

"Not tough enough?" Harry gestured at the kids below. "These are my roommates. I've lived in a home with them for most of my life, mixing freely. I've survived so far."

Draco joined Harry gazing over the rail. "I can't really imagine it, living in that kind of free for all. It's a wonder you learned to eat using cutlery."

"They're not that bad." Harry rolled his eyes. "You asked for the worst of the lot."

"Asked for the worst of the lot? I would hate to think my son would sabotage his own birthday party." The boys turned to find Lucius lurking just outside the balcony's archway, his cool blue eyes staring out at the wreck of his home. "Draco, we need to talk. I'm certain your friend can amuse himself for a few moments."

His father had taken notice, as planned, and all of a sudden Draco wasn't so sure he wanted the attention he had drummed up. He followed his father into the hall and on to their library. The room was dimly lit, the ceiling-high book shelves standing sentry around the room. Lucius just waited there quietly, without turning to face his son. Was he going to stand there all night? Was he going to yell? How would he punish his son for this? Draco opened his mouth to speak, but closed it ineffectually. He had no idea what to say.

"Are you really feuding with Lisa Turpin, or did she help you orchestrate this travesty? Your cousins are cowering at home in either case." Lucius looked over his shoulder. "Well?"

"She's a friend, and she helped me with... the party."

A half-smile curved at Lucius's lips and he nodded. "Good then. You can go back to your guests."

_Was that it?_ Draco hesitated but turned to leave. His father's silence was broken at last, and he hadn't even been upset. Was it his imagination or was his father actually pleased? Draco had opened the door, when his father spoke again. "An alliance with the Turpins would be invaluable. Just try not to wreck the house the next time you play a game with your new friends. Your mother's hysterical."

* * *

Lounging carelessly in the only available seat, Sirius waited impatiently for the next person on his list of potential traitors to return from lunch. When he started the project with Lily, he had been geared up for a painful series of intense interrogations. But so far he hadn't found anyone guilty enough to require more than a dose of Veritaserum and a Memory Charm. Sure, he'd uncovered a couple of petty thieves and minor delinquencies, but by and large the entire operation had been a bust.

They were moving through the list alphabetically, and if you hadn't found any traitors by the letter P, what were the odds you were going to find one in the second half of the alphabet?

Scanning the office of the master scheduler in question, Sirius rolled his eyes. The place was a cluttered mess. A scheduler should have minor organizational skills, shouldn't he? The man who belonged to the office entered with a flurry of activity. He scurried past Sirius and started sorting through the papers on his desk. "You must be here for the carer schedule for next month. I had it here this morning, sir. I just need a second."

Sirius started to address the scheduler, but he paused, staring. He knew this guy from somewhere. "I know you, don't I?" Sirius said. "Pettigrew, Peter. Peter Pettigrew." A smile spread over his face. "You used to follow James around during school breaks. You weren't class one, but your parents worked at the Potters."

Pettigrew actually looked up and his mouth dropped open. "Sirius Black? I...What are you doing here?"

Shaking his head, Sirius pulled a shot glass out of his pocket. He poured a finger of Veritaserum-laced wine into it, and set it in front of Peter. "This is an internal review. Drink it."

"But, what is it?" Peter stared at the glass as though it might bite him. "What do you want?"

Sirius didn't answer specifically, but he smiled. "Don't worry about it. It won't poison you, I promise." He dropped a hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around his wand. "We know each other. Drinking that is a tiny formality." Sirius pulled his wand out, fully prepared to bully the wine down Peter.

"Okay," Peter said, staring at Sirius' wand nervously. "I don't usually just drink anything set in front of me." He gulped the wine down and winced. "Not a very good vintage."

Sirius shrugged. "The Veritaserum makes it bitter."

Peter eyes widened and dropped heavily into his chair. "What is this about? I'm not a thief."

"Duly noted. This interview should be fairly painless." Sirius set up an enchanted quill and parchment. "State your name." He could see the intoxicating effects of the Veritaserum settling in. Peter's jaw had dropped open and his eyes looked glassy.

"Peter Pettigrew."

Sirius made sure his quill was recording their conversation properly and continued. "Have you ever betrayed the rebellion?"

"Yes," Peter said.

_Another petty thief,_ Sirius thought, but he continued with the list Lily had provided. "Have you ever dealt with a witch named Oscasia?"

"Yes."

Sirius paused again. In nearly one hundred interviews Peter was the first to say yes to that question. From Lily's briefing, Oscasia was a sick one, a child broker. "What were your dealings with Oscasia?"

Peter's head lolled to the side and he frowned. "No, I shouldn't tell you. I shouldn't say." He rose as though to run away.

"You have to say," Sirius said. He circled around the desk, throwing Peter back into his seat. He planted a knee in the traitor's groin. "Say what you've done." He applied pressure until Peter began to whimper helplessly.

"I... I write to her and tell her about the children. Then, from time to time, I help her collect them. She pays me for my letters and for the children -- three sickles for a letter and fifty... fifty for a... for a child."

Sirius breathed in the stale, sweaty scent of his newly discovered traitor. Disgust washing over him, he asked his next question. "You sold children to her? You... list every child you ever sold."

Peter shook his head, trembling from the agony of Sirius's restraint. "I don't remember them all, so many names, so unimportant. So insignificant after the first... showed you all with that one... I showed you all how important I really am. I taught you better than to leave me behind."

Sirius applied a bit more pressure and was rewarded with a scream. This vagueness was the fundamental flaw of Veritaserum. Pain sometimes clarified it. "Names, Pettigrew, I want every name you can remember."

"I remember Isobel Potter," Peter screamed. "I remember Harry... Seamus. I remember Alicia Izzary. I remember the fires and the accidents and the lies. Fooled you all... I fooled you all. Stupid Class IV wizard, fooled you all."

His mind spinning with the names Peter had shared, Sirius stumbled back. "You sold James' children." In the next moment he had his wand up and torture curses were falling from his mouth. "Crucio!" He watched the rat squirm, vaguely aware that he couldn't afford to kill him or drive him mad, not yet.

Sirius crouched down by Peter and sneered bitterly. "Where are the children, Peter? What does she do with them?"

"I don't. I don't. I don't know." Peter was trembling so hard that his words were almost incomprehensible. "Swear, I don't know."

* * *

In the shadows of the Emperor's massive throne a seer stood, casual and calm. A first glance she was young, perhaps a teenager. But she wasn't nervous or awkward. She stared back at the other immortals of Turpin's inner court without trepidation. Though her body proclaimed her youth, her eyes had seen centuries pass, and they still occasionally glimpsed the future.

The court was unusually full, Spero thought. She tucked her black hair behind her ear and restrained a yawn. There was to be a new initiate, and that always brought out the curiosity seekers. The main chamber doors creaked open. Surrounded on all sides by faceless, masked legionnaires, a sallow-faced, hook-nosed wizard strode in. He had to feel vulnerable, surrounded, wandless, and unsure of his acceptance. Spero decided that she liked the wizard's face. It was interesting.

Peeking out of the shadows, Spero touched Turpin gently on the shoulder. That contact was enough to ask permission to mentally scan their new arrival. His silence was ample assent for her to continue. She silently cast Legilimens and let its power trace along the new wizard's barriers. She cast again and again, feeling for a chink, an entry point. No one could maintain perfect calmness in this situation, not for long.

And Spero found her chink. It was ironic really, that a bubble of hope would ripple through his barriers and open the door for her invasion. She slipped through his memories, his fears, his hopes...his secrets.

"Spy," Spero hissed after only a moment. "He is a spy."

Turpin looked up and settled his gaze on their intruder. "The field," he said. "Send him." While the masked legionnaires led the spy away, Turpin turned to another of his helpers. "Bring me Mabel. She's made another mistake."

"A serious one this time," Spero whispered.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Well, Peter has finally been exposed. Snape is in trouble. And The kids are just trying to have an enjoyable break. Next chapter, Sirius has news, Harry, Draco, and Lisa have Quidditch camp, and Remus will discover more than he bargained for while helping captain Nyt.

And with that, I'll see you all in April.


	16. Withholding

**Chapter 15 - Withholding**

**History of the World Volume XIX Chapter 1 The Rule of Turpin - Absolute Truth**

_Muggles are bound by laws of nature, absolute truths. Gravity pulls them down. Their short lives flicker in a biological trudge toward inevitable death. The ability to defy absolute truth sets a wizard above nature, defining their role in life. When a wizard is faced with an absolute truth, he has only to think on whether it suits him. If he tires of gravity, he mounts a broom. If the blue sky wears on his nerves he can paint it red. Magical power defines truth._

* * *

Hundreds of ships clustered together in Poole Harbour. They rocked gently with the waves, creaking and sighing. Some rode high in the water, empty of cargo. Others rode low, already heavy with goods and men, ready to sail with the next tide. None of the trappings of wizards could be found on the docks. There weren't broom stations or potion stands. Muggle hawkers were about with their wares, but that wasn't so surprising. Harbours had long reigned as havens of iniquity, ruled by Muggle criminals. Wizards had never had much use for ships. Sailing was a Muggle occupation, capricious, dangerous, and completely unnecessary for a wizard who need only Apparate himself or conjure his goods across a distance.

Magic found its role on the docks. Though the ships were captained and crewed by Muggles, there wasn't a single vessel without magic carvings and charms worked into its hull. Even the poorest captain could find a Squib to work a bit of luck into his ship.

One vessel stood out among the roughly-charmed ships. Its hull was stained a dark mahogany, and precise pictograms highlighted every inch of wood, from the keel to the tip of the tallest mast. The night was starless, clouds obscuring all light, and in the pitch blackness those pictograms almost seemed to glow.

"Are you sure about this," Nyt hissed at her companion. Her grey hair was trapped in an untidy braid and she was peering over a neatly stacked row of barrels at the ship they had come to raid.

"We just have to get on it," Remus said. "The rest will be fairly easy."

Nyt spun and glared menacingly. "You keep saying that if we get on the ship, the rest will be easy. How do you figure that getting the two of us on that ship will be easier than getting my crew off?"

"You're just going to have to trust me," Remus said. But Nyt had drawn her wand and it was pointed at his navel.

"No, I really don't. Tell me the plan, you mangy mercenary, or I'll go forward and handle this myself."

Remus shook his head and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Fine, I'll tell you the quick version as we have little time before that ship sails. If it sails without us, there is no way to save your crew or anyone else on board."

"I'm listening," Nyt said, but her wand never wavered.

"That ship is a prison. I know you were surprised when I told you we would find your people at the harbour. Since when has Turpin needed ships? Funny thing about immortals, they get bored. This ship was designed by one of Turpin's jaded third tier governors. There have been hundreds of them constructed, designed to prevent prison overcrowding."

Remus frowned darkly. "Only prisoners who have been given a life sentence are placed aboard. There is no crew, no cargo except for men. The ship is launched, and the charms etched into its hull compel it to find open water."

"And," Nyt coaxed.

"The end," Remus said. "The ship goes out to sea and does not come back."

"So we stow away until the launch, and then stage our prison break after they've abandoned the people aboard to dehydration and death." Nyt put away her wand. "I like the plan."

Remus hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. She had the gist of the plan anyway. And there was very little time. "The gangway is down. The tide will be going out with the dawn. That ship will be going with it. Are you ready, Captain?"

"Don't dawdle." Nyt sprang around the dock's barrels and was half-way up the gangway before Remus had taken off. She moved rather fast for an elderly captain.

* * *

Her bottom lip sticking out, Isobel Green watched her brother pack away his belongings again. It wasn't even time to go back to school, but he was leaving. Since coming back he hadn't managed to spend more than three days straight in the group home. He had friends to visit, parties to go to, camps to attend. "I hate you," she said, proud of herself because her voice didn't tremble.

"No you don't," Harry said. He stuffed another robe into his trunk. "If I could take you to Quidditch camp with me, I would, okay? But I can't skip it, and you can't come."

Isobel slid off her brother's bed and scuffed her feet around to look into his jumbled packing job. "You're a slob," she said.

"And you're a spoiled brat," Harry replied. "Don't antagonize Hermione and she'll look out for you while I'm gone, got it?"

Isobel curled her lip disgustedly. "I don't want her to look after me. It's not her job."

Harry refused to respond that it was his job, though he knew it was true. Isobel would just have to grow up a little. He couldn't be there with her every second of every day. Harry pulled his trunk closed and sighed. "Well, are you going to see me off then?"

"Yeah," Isobel said. She followed him and his trunk downstairs to the transportation circle, where the other kids who played Quidditch were being sent to camp. "Bye, Harry," Isobel said when it was his turn to leave. She'd learned her lesson about shouting things you didn't mean to people in transportation circles when Harry left for school. She'd been kicking herself for months over that explosion.

Harry smiled at her, and waved. "Be good, Izzy!"

The transportation circle swallowed her brother in a wave of mist and light. With a dignified snort, Isobel spun on her heel and trudged back upstairs. The girls' dorm was always full so she kept going up until she was at the roof access. It was supposed to be locked, but too many older kids liked to go out there to snog, and it was constantly being Alohamorahed. She tried the knob, and it turned easily.

There weren't any couples out there that she could see, so Isobel made her way around the roof's flat balcony portion to a corner out of the wind. She slipped a hand down into her grey robes and pulled out a bit of parchment that had been folded and refolded.

It was the only card she had received on her ninth birthday. They started with the divination stones when you turned nine, so that they could pick the powerful wizards out and really prepare them for school. The group homes didn't have the funds to waste their time and money on a wizard that had no chance to make Class I or II. Harry had always gotten a blue card, a ticket to study. But Isobel's parchment was pink. In a pretty slanted scrawl, her pink letter told her she was less than those children with blue slips.

Not that Harry knew. She wanted to tell him. But it took time for her to build up the courage, and he was always leaving. She didn't want to be his cry-baby sister anymore. Not since what he'd said to her about Christmas and her tantrum. She had never seen her brother so fierce, so livid with her.

Would he be angry over the pink slip of paper? Isobel didn't really think he would be cross at her, but he might be angry for her. She envisioned her brother going to the toad they had teaching the less promising children, Professor Umbridge, and hexing her pink-cardigan into choking her unless she moved his sister back to the real classes.

Isobel jumped when the slip of parchment was pulled from her loose grip. Hermione had followed her, snuck up behind her, and was now reading her private letter. Colour was rising in her cheeks, and Isobel snatched the letter back. "I don't need a keeper while Harry is gone. I can take care of myself."

Rather than answer, Hermione took a seat a few feet away, out where the wind could blow her wild hair. "You should tell Harry about that letter. He'd want to know."

"I plan to tell him." Isobel glared toward the rising sun. "When I'm ready, I'll tell him."

* * *

Sunlight shone through the window, torturing Sirius through his eyelids. His head felt swollen, as if his brain was too large for his skull and was clamouring to escape. "Could someone close the bloody curtains?" The lights almost immediately dimmed. Suddenly anxious to see who had obliged his muttered request, Sirius hazarded opening his eyes. With the lights dimmed, he could just manage to keep his eyes open against the pain in his skull. He stared up at the creamy-white ceiling trying to remember what happened. To wake up with the sort of headache he was sporting, it must have been one hell of a party. But he couldn't remember.

"It's good to see you awake. Very well timed, I might add. Another ten minutes and I would have been gone."

Sirius turned to the man at his bedside. Dumbledore was staring down at him with a kind, fatherly expression that just made Sirius' head hurt worse. He needed to remember what happened. "Tell me someone murdered the Hippogriff that ran me over."

"Ah, but it wasn't a Hippogriff. You took three rather well cast stunning spells that knocked you out thoroughly." Albus rose and paced back toward the sealed window. "Do you remember what you were doing when you were stunned?"

"No, I..." Sirius closed his eyes and Pettigrew's snivelling face bubbled to the surface. "Peter..." Throwing himself forward, Sirius sat up gritting his teeth against the pain. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Peter didn't get away. Did they let Peter get away?"

Albus shook his head and frowned compassionately at Sirius. "You can understand their mistake. When they discovered you torturing a practically defenceless scheduler, they subdued the person who seemed to be the criminal of the moment. Fortunately, you hadn't left Peter in any condition to make his escape. Both of you were brought to the infirmary where we have managed to sort through the facts."

"Then you know." Sirius let himself fall back onto the bed. "Peter stole children, sold children. He sold James and Lily's children." He breathed slowly for a few seconds allowing the pain in his head to stop resonating so painfully. "James knows? You've told James."

"Of course, Sirius. James knows," Albus said. "Rest now."

Sirius looked at Albus thankfully before he succumbed to the unconsciousness that had begun to claw darkly at his perception.

Heading out into the corridor, Albus paused to speak to a Healer who was watching through the doorway. "He is mending well?"

"Yes, very well. The Captain is lucky. Those three stunners hit him at once, and one hit him rather squarely in the head." The Healer smiled. "Whatever you said to him, he seems to be sleeping more soundly."

Albus returned her smile and nodded. A small lie could often set the mind at ease.

* * *

The transportation circle that serviced the western Quidditch camp facilities sat part way up a ridge, below which, six full-sized Quidditch pitches stood. Harry lingered in the transportation circle a moment longer than he should have while gaping at the camp, and another arrival appeared, nearly on top of him. It was an older student. He shoved Harry roughly out of his way and out of the circle.

"Sorry," Harry tossed after the broad-shouldered youth. With that build he was probably a Beater or maybe a Keeper. While he knew he should probably head down the trail himself, Harry waited for another moment, allowing his anticipation to build - three weeks of flying and playing. Freedom.

"I can tell you love it."

Spinning, Harry spotted a young man standing at the other side of the transportation circle. He smiled kindly, and Harry returned the expression. "I guess I do."

The young man came around and offered Harry his hand. "I'm Oliver Wood, a Keeper."

"Harry Green, Seeker." They shook hands and Oliver handed Harry a scroll of parchment. "A little reading for when you're not flying."

Was Oliver a teacher then? Harry pocketed the parchment, but before he could ask, a girl came flying out of the transportation circle and set to pummelling the nice young man. "What do you think you're doing here? Are you barmy? Leave the baby first-years alone you brainwashed, nutter."

"You still care," Oliver managed to choke out.

"Care? I care enough to warn you that Ethan is right behind me. Hopefully those insane bastards taught you to Apparate 'cause Ethan has been dying to beat some sense into you, and he's not above using a Beater bat." The girl had stopped pummelling Oliver but she was staring at him like he was diseased or crazed. "Get out of here," she commanded. "Go!"

Oliver stepped back and smiled sadly. "It's okay, Katherine. I'll go."

After the pop of Oliver's Apparition, Harry found himself gazing apprehensively at the tall girl who had chased him away. She flung her thick, brown braid over her shoulder and stared down at him appraisingly. "Did Oliver do anything to you? Say anything?"

"We just said hello and shook hands. He said he was a Keeper." Harry stepped away from the girl, Katherine. Who knew what might set her off pummelling him?

"He is a Keeper, a brilliant one. Come on to camp and I'll tell you a couple of things to be careful of, so you don't end up like my friend, Oliver."

She gripped her trunk and began dragging it down the path to camp. Harry scrambled to follow. "So what happened to him? If he's a brilliant Keeper, why isn't he in camp?"

"He isn't in camp because he defected. Those loonies in Antarctica got to him. He joined the Quidditch Fundamentalist Movement, quit school, walked away from his friends and family, and flew a few thousand miles south to play Keeper on an ice cube." Katherine shook her head but never broke stride. "You have to watch out for them. They send recruiters everywhere, and Oliver was normal, a good friend. But they got him."

"I can't imagine anything he could have said to make me abandon my sister and go to Antarctica." Harry frowned resolutely. "It's crazy."

"Yet very sane people are upping sticks and doing it. Farewell family, farewell girlfriend, I want to entertain penguins!" Katherine stopped abruptly at a fork in the trail and pointed to the right. "New guys go that way. Fiona will want to see you fly."

"Thanks." Harry wasn't sure how to properly respond to the situation. He squirmed for a couple of seconds before adding, "It was nice to meet you, Katherine."

"Be careful." She didn't ask for Harry's name. Katherine just nodded once and rolled her trunk onwards down the path.

Ahead, Harry spotted his age group and relief washed through him. It was easier to handle something new when surrounded by a crowd of familiar faces. Draco greeted him with a dignified wave. "I see you finally made it, Green."

"Yeah, I was busy being recruited by the Antarctica nutters," Harry whispered, casting a quick glance around to make sure the instructor wouldn't be able to see him talking.

"You're kidding," Draco said. "Are they here?" He looked back up the path Harry had come down. "Did they try to Imperius you?"

"I don't think so," Harry replied. "A girl stopped the guy before he could even really say anything. So, who's Fiona and why are we flying for her?"

"I'm Fiona, you little chatterbox." Harry looked up into the face of a middle-aged black woman. She had circled around to the back of the crowd as quietly as a cat. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she was wearing grey and white Keeper's robes. "Name and position, Chatterbox?"

"Harry Green, Seeker." He could practically feel the crowd receding from him under Fiona's gaze. This was not the kind of attention he wanted to garner off the bat.

"Well, take a broom, Green. You can start." She turned toward the crowd. "As I was saying, most of you will be working within your age group. And some of you we may need to move, out of necessity." Fiona mounted a broom and streaked into the air. "Come on, Green. I haven't got all day."

Determined to make up for his less than stellar introduction, Harry selected one of the brooms and followed Fiona into the air, with a steep, professional ascent that brought him to a standstill precisely two feet from her hovering position. She didn't crack a smile.

"You wear glasses, Green. I hope they're the proper prescription. Seekers need to see." She flourished one of her hands revealing four golden Gobstone-sized spheres. "I want you to catch all four without letting one hit the ground. On my mark, you can fetch." With a smirk she launched a ball every five seconds, each on a different trajectory. "Fetch," she said.

For his part, Harry didn't have time to think about catching the spheres. He watched them fly, and he had to let his instincts guide him on a path to catching them all. Harry was honestly shocked at how easily he managed to catch the first three. If he had stopped to let his brain catch up with his gut, he never would have dived for the fourth, but Harry went for it, racing toward the ground in a suicidal spiral that had his fellow Quidditch players gasping in fear. Harry managed to catch the sphere, not crash into the Earth, and he even avoided running any of his team mates over as they drove away from his recovery-ascent.

"Good enough," Fiona said. She took the spheres back from Harry. "Your instincts will improve as you get more experience. The desperate dive wasn't necessary if you'd been a bit more efficient on your start. Head down and send me two Chasers."

Harry joined his team mates to a smattering of applause. Many of them were still beating the dirt off their robes from having to dive out of his way. He nodded to a couple of the Chasers and delivered Fiona's message. Draco was still toward the back of the group, and he had located Lisa. A satisfied smile plastered to his face, Harry joined them.

"Not bad," Draco said, returning Harry smile with a smirk. "If I'd ended up in the ditch with half the team, I'd be less impressed."

"Were you impressed, Lisa?" Harry couldn't help asking.

She shrugged. "It's just Quidditch, another hoop to jump through." After a beat she admitted, "But you're good at that hoop."

"Wonder what she'll make the Beaters do?" Harry asked. The two Chasers seemed to be attempting some form of two-person, flying juggling.

"That juggling bit with bats?" Lisa speculated. Draco laughed, and they started critiquing the fliers as they took their turns. Occasionally Harry added a something, but he let Lisa and Draco lead the running commentary, happy to watch the flying and try to figure what Fiona was looking for in it all. When Draco and Lisa finally took their turn in the air, Harry was impressed. They had been working together, drilling, and their ability to communicate was light-years beyond any of the other pairs.

When Fiona finally returned to land, she took up a parchment and started scribbling on it. After a moment she held up an arm for silence. "Follow me to camp."

Feeling terribly excited yet content and at home, Harry strolled along between Draco and Lisa. Fiona stopped at camp, a simple strip of brightly-coloured tents. Above their heads, kids of all ages zoomed about on brooms, laughing and screaming so that Fiona had to shout to be heard. "Listen to your team captains! They'll make sure you know what to do when. They will show you where you need to be. Now when I call your name, head into the yellow tent!"

They moved along the tents, dropping kids off at every stop. When Draco and Lisa were dropped at a pale-blue tent, Harry took a moment to say farewell. "That was some nice flying, both of you."

"Naturally," Draco said. Lisa just nodded.

Before long, Harry found himself alone with Fiona. She stopped outside a bright crimson tent and frowned at her parchment. "Katherine! Get out here and look what I brought you."

The girl Harry had met upon arrival emerged from the tent, an anticipatory grin on her face. "You've picked a Seeker? Is it Eddie? I can work with Eddie. He isn't brilliant, but beggars can't be choosers." She finally seemed to notice Harry and her face fell. All the animation went out of her. "If this is about Oliver, I was going to tell you about his little recruiting effort as soon as you finished with the new kids. He was chatting this one up when I arrived."

Fiona had seemed serious in a jovial way, but at the mention of Oliver her entire face changed. Her grey eyes narrowed and the muscles of her jaw visibly tensed. She spun and dropped to Harry's eye level. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing," Harry answered. "She tackled him before he got past hello."

It didn't come right away, but a half-smile eventually curled Fiona's lips. "Kathy has excellent instincts. She's going to be your team captain." Standing, Fiona nodded to the two of them. "If you want to be competitive, you'll make more of this one than Eddie, believe me. Unfortunately, I'm not going to be able to pull him out of school when it starts back. Quidditch can't pull Class I fulltime before fifth year. Three days a week is all you'll get." She cuffed Katherine companionably on the shoulder, nodded to Harry, and left them.

Katherine frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. "Got a name?"

"Harry Green." Was she disappointed at not getting Eddie, whoever that was? She didn't look very happy so see a first-year on her team.

"Well, Green, welcome to the Fireballs, number-four amateur squad in the European Training League. We just lost our Keeper to Antarctica, and our Seeker to the Westies. So you, pipsqueak, have some big shoes to fill." Katherine finally smiled and held the tent flap back for him. "Come in, and I'll introduce you to the team."

The tent was spacious with a large open common area with seven chairs, just enough comfortable furniture for a Quidditch team. There were semi-private bunk spaces spaced all around the tent. Katherine took his trunk from him and set it next to one of the bunks.

"I'm a Chaser. My two fellow Chasers are outside making trouble for themselves. Bobby and Emily are our Beaters." Katherine pointed to a blonde girl with a pert nose, and a stocky black-haired boy sitting in the common area. "Guys, this is our new Seeker, Harry. I expect you to protect him, as he'll have a lot of learning to do, and the other teams will know it."

"What about Eddie?" Emily asked. She flipped her blond hair over her shoulder and frowned at Harry. "It's his turn."

"Eddie is still captaining a pre-team training squad as far as I know," Katherine said with a shrug. "Fiona wouldn't have sent us the pipsqueak if he wasn't good."

Emily did not seem satisfied with that answer. She crossed the central area of the tent and led Katherine to one of the enclosures to have a word.

Harry didn't like the queasy feeling that being discussed brought to life in his gut. Then Bobby waved him over. "It isn't you," he said. "Em is dating Eddie. And she was counting on his promotion to get him fulltime out here. She'll live. So, you know how the training system works? They're explaining it to your age group down in the pre-team training. But as you're skipping pre-team training..."

"Not really. I know Coach Boris was teaching us fundamentals during the spring practices. But now we're going to fly on real Quidditch teams and practice the game, for real. Right?" Harry waited to see if his assumptions were correct.

"Sort of," Bobby said. "We've always got an odd number of people, too many Beaters, never enough Seekers. They set this place up so that the surplus keeps practicing basics with occasional scrimmages, and the best are pulled out to make four teams that really play as teams. The teachers try to make the top four pretty equal. We dropped to the bottom after our roster got pillaged of course. The Westies we were expecting, but losing our Keeper was a bit of a blow." With a rueful smile, Bobby handed Harry a large hunk of bread and a Butterbeer. "Eat, drink, and get some sleep," he commanded. "We have a scrimmage tomorrow."

That night as Harry was getting dressed for bed, he pulled a small scroll of parchment out of his pocket. Oliver had given it to him, and Harry had all but forgotten it in the excitement that had followed. For a moment he considered not opening it. Maybe it was enchanted? No one would want him to read it if they knew he had it, but Harry couldn't resist his curiosity. He unrolled the parchment.

_Freedom_

_On a broom in the air is the only place I'm truly free. It is a truth that I have known for most of my life._

_Don't let people tell you that it's wrong to be free._

_You can be free too._

Harry stared at the simple phrases, surprised at its message. He had expected an advertisement. Come down south! Our Quidditch program can't be beat! And the Weather isn't really that bad either! But it was just an odd testimony, one that resonated with Harry. Folding the parchment into a small square, he took a seat on his bunk. It wasn't like he would abandon his life and sister to go play Quidditch in Antarctica.

But he didn't throw the parchment away.

* * *

The only illumination entering Albus's office came through the window, a sluggish red twilight. But Dumbledore made no attempt to light the candles. His mind was pregnant with potent truth. Oscasia had stolen children. Snape's vague clue, which had barely warranted an investigation, had borne fruit, terrible, hopeful fruit.

Children thought dead and gone were alive. Albus had dispatched a complete task force to complete the interrogation of Lily's list, and then locate every possible stolen child. So far their results had been illuminating. Lily and Remus made a list of possible traitors. Now Albus had built a list of possible survivors. Some were already definite survivors.

But he couldn't tell the parents -- not yet. How could he expect a parent to hear the news that their child was alive and well, and expect them to wait to reclaim them? Reclaiming the rebellion's stolen children had to be handled carefully. The empire should never know that their clever scheme was discovered and subverted.

Albus already had a plan.

A knock at his door heralded the arrival of Melinda Potter in a swirl of skirts and flutter of parchments. A pair of eyeglasses perched at the tip of her nose caught a bit of the fading light before she lit Albus's candles with a couple of pointed wand swishes. "Are you napping in the dark?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "Have you brought your new article, then? You're early."

"It's all finished, Raq Flying for the new spectator." She smiled and set the papers on Albus's desk, but he made no move to look at them. "Is it a bad time?"

"Did you know that I was acquainted with your son and daughter in law?" Albus asked.

Melinda frowned. "They both attended school..."

"No," Albus interrupted her. "I spoke to your son just a few days ago. He is one of my most trusted Admirals. Did he tell you about his promotion?"

"Admiral?" Melinda felt her eyes go wide, and she groped her way into a nearby chair as her knees seemed to have gone weak. Was Albus insinuating what it sounded like he was insinuating? How could a school governor be involved in the rebellion? It had to be some form of trap. "I don't know what you mean. My son is in South America. He's been there for years, campaigning against human sacrifice. He's a chip off the old block really."

Albus ignored her reiteration of the old lies. It would take her a moment to accept his new role, to accept that he wasn't trying to trap her. "I helped come up with the lies you're telling. The original plan was to say they were living in Africa, working against organized dragon fighting." Albus paused for a moment and watched the realization hitting her. "You've always struck me as a steady woman, a woman who understands patience and calculated action. I need your help, Melinda. Are you ready to return the favour you owe me?"

"I do not associate myself with the rebellion," Melinda said stiffly. "In my life I've never struck out against the government in a non-peaceable manner. What messes my daughter-in-law has involved my son it, don't involve me."

"Of course." Albus nodded. "I thought you might make an exception for your grandchildren."

Her expression darkened and Melinda was on her feet in a flash. "How dare you even mention them? How dare you try to use them? My grandchildren died because of your rebellion, and you don't get to use them."

"I don't want to use your grandchildren. I would like to give them back to you and your family." Albus rose and met Melinda's angry stare with his own sad determined gaze. "But it must be handled with the utmost care, the utmost secrecy."

"You can't give back the dead," Melinda hissed. But her mind was already churning with possibilities. Was Albus insinuating that her grandchildren were alive? There was just no way. Was there?

"Nearly fifty children have been taken, from what we've uncovered so far. Fortunately, they seem to be unharmed and quite accessible for recovery, but we have to be cautious. The empire faked their deaths and took them for a reason, even if it isn't clear to us why." Albus strode around the desk until he was close by Melinda. "We have to take back what was stolen, but in a way that empire will not suspect anything. I need help that you can give, to get these children safely home."

"Are you mad?" Melinda stepped away from Albus, her face contorted in a horrified disbelieving frown. "There was a fire..."

Albus extended his wand at the wall, where the composites of the current Class I students hung. "Engorgio!" The first-year's canvas stretched so that it filled the entire wall. The now large grinning rows of students stared back at them but Albus strode to the one picture he needed Melinda to see. "This boy's name is Harry Green. He's is eleven years old, and he lives in a group home in London with his little sister Isobel. He looks quite a bit like his father, I think."

Melinda didn't realize that her mouth had dropped open for several seconds. It was the most strangely pleasant shock, to see Harry staring at her. Not a five-year-old anymore, but a young man. He had made Class I like his father. She walked up to the painting and touched it. Harry flinched back a bit and squirmed under her gaze. "Why haven't they been taken back? If we know it's them, what are we waiting for? What do you want from me Albus?"

"If we do this right, no children will be left behind. If we do this right, the empire will not be able to steal children this way again. I have a plan," Albus said. "Will you help me?"

"How long is it going to take? We have wasted a lot of time." Melinda wanted to go straight to her grandchildren, but Albus was right about her appreciation of thoughtful deliberate action. She had worked inside the law trying to reform the empire, a lifetime's deliberate action. "What do you need from me?"

"If all goes well, everyone should be home in a few months. As for what I need from you, I would like you to write some fiction." Albus crossed back to his desk and produced a carefully rolled parchment. "All the details are inside."

* * *

The prison ship cut through the waves, heading for the open ocean. Remus silently cast a spell at the ship, the words of the incantation running in his head, "Chronos Destino, Chronos Destino." Nyt was going through the hold releasing her crew. After some time, the prisoners began to emerge onto deck. Remus kept his seat, still casting his spell, again and again. A woman cut through the growing crowd. She was young and petite with a partially braided head of pink hair. "Well, mate, I'm assuming we won't be able to commandeer this ship, so I move we abandon her and Apparate home. The barmy idiots left everyone's wand aboard, so we shouldn't have any trouble."

Remus smiled thinly and nodded. "Please feel free to try." He could see the group converge on the railing out of the corner of his eye. But there wasn't a splash. Gradually grumbling began to fill the air. "You shouldn't panic," Remus said. "We'll be out of here soon. We just have to give the spell time to work."

The pink-haired woman re-emerged from the crowd and stopped in front of Remus. "What spell? Why can't we abandon ship?"

"This is a prison. It's designed for life sentences, not death sentences. You have your wands and supplies, and a ship you can't leave. As a group you -- we've -- been removed from the general population," Remus said. A chill raced up his arms at the thought of other such ships bobbing about on the ocean, people trapped forever. With their wands to keep them in oranges and fresh water, such a colony could survive indefinitely. If they knew the backdoor, they could escape, but no one would ever teach it to them.

"But you're going to get us out of this?" the pink-haired girl demanded.

"Yes, Captain Nyt, I am going to fix this, as promised." Remus couldn't quite contain a smile. "I like the new look by the way. Was it hard to maintain the old wizened face?" Nyt blushed, but Remus shrugged. "Nothing wrong with a little concealment, it was a smart move. You didn't know me, and wolves do have reputations."

"What spell are you working? You should let us help," Nyt said, ignoring his comment on her changed appearance. "You might have noticed that you're outnumbered."

"Outnumbered? I'm not the enemy, captain." Remus noticed a definite fading to the deck of the ship. "Make sure everyone is above deck. This will happen fast. We need to make sure we abandon ship the moment the charms break down. The ship will sink soon after."

Nyt nodded to the men and women behind her. "Make sure everyone is up here, even the ones you don't know. Be quick about it." She approached Remus, but he held a hand up in warning.

"I'm using the back door off this ship, a secret I learned from a wolf. The spell is dangerous enough with me casting it. Best to stay back, lest you get caught in it."

"Fine," Nyt muttered. The ship gave a strange shudder and the dark wood continued to fade. It was a dull grey now. The main mast was groaning. "What is happening to it?"

"The ship is getting very old, very fast." Remus stared at the boards that were now buckling in places. "Everyone! Try to abandon ship, and Disapparate out! Go now!" This time, when the men and women hurried to the railing, they were able to hoist themselves over. The glorious splashing of men and women escaping reached Remus's ears. Now was the most dangerous moment, the part that would likely cause the ship to sink rather quickly. Remus could feel his wand humming with the life he had siphoned out of the ship. When he broke the connection and ended the spell, likely as not, there would be an explosive release of energy. "Nyt, you need to go. I'll be following shortly."

"Why do I doubt you, wolf?" Nyt said. "A captain is never the second to last person off a ship."

He couldn't wait any longer. Drawing more energy would only make matters worse. Closing his eyes, Remus severed the connection. Light flashed, and it felt like a hand shoved him hard in the chest, knocking him off his feet.

Remus thought he heard Nyt and felt her tugging at his arm. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but the blackness claimed him.

"Heavy bloody wolf..."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Sheepish grin. It's been too long. I know. Many many many thanks are owed Magical Maeve for the kind comma mallet work.


	17. Fair Trade

**Chapter 16 - Fair Trade**

**History of the World Volume XXXI Chapter 2 The Rule of Turpin - Vociferor**

_The village of Tarsus in south central Turkey was once a popular get away for the wealthy of Europe. People came to see the temples and pray, to bathe in the springs and soak in the fountains. War came to Tarsus in the summer of 1408 AD. One of the town's most prominent proprietors, Marcus Gumm, was complicit in hiding nearly ten thousand rebel troops prior to an assault on the capital. After the rebellion was stamped out, the Legion was set upon Tarsus as the most visible supporter of the failed action._

_The temples were burned, the fountains destroyed, and from the meagre ashes that remained, Turpin rebuilt Tarsus for a new purpose. It was constructed for special executions, long executions. Turpin had always contended that death was a kindness, and true punishment could only be enacted on the living. His charge to the wardens of Tarsus was simple: The men and women I send you should suffer until they beg for death. And they should continue to suffer until their screams turn to madness. Only then will they be rewarded with release._

_Among educated scholars Tarsus is now known by its Latin name, Vociferor. More commonly it is simply called the Field, or the Killing Field._

_Some prominent wardens include...

* * *

_

Remus woke to the smell of fish and smoke long before he pried his eyes open, so that when he finally peeked at the world, he wasn't completely surprised to find himself in a fish salting house. The wooden walls were stained and warped from years of moisture and slime. Staring at a pile of fish heads and the worker producing that pile, Remus cleared his throat. "Excuse me? How long have I been here?"

"Longer then me," the worker said without breaking from his systematic motions. Position a fish, cleave the head, remove the guts, filet it in two clean cuts, and drop it in the salt bath. Precise work with a sharp knife could be dangerous, and Remus decided not to distract the man any more if he could help it. He headed outside quietly.

It seemed Nyt had saved his life, but decided to keep his gold for saving her crew. She probably reasoned that they were even, since she fished him out of the ocean. Remus frowned darkly. He would have negotiated a discount, but even wolves had to eat. Without money he was better off at the bottom of the ocean. There was no way he was going back to live with the other wolves. Yes, they gave him sanctuary when he was young and alone and hunted, but the code they lived by didn't quite agree with him. He was a man before a wolf, and he refused to live any other way.

It was too soon to visit his parents again. He had left his earnings from Dumbledore with them, and they would welcome him home as always. But they were safe and anonymous in their village in France. His every visit threatened that.

"Remus, where do you think you're going?" Nyt called from across the rutted street. She glanced around to time her crossing between the carts and horses and darted to Remus's side. She was still young and pink-haired, and she was smiling. "Good thing you're finally awake. We can't afford to linger here much longer."

"We can't? Where exactly are we?" Remus spun slowly, but the rundown fishing village wasn't a familiar one.

"We're halfway to Turkey." When Remus didn't smile she rolled her eyes. "Italy then, a little town called Lecce. You'll be wanting to get paid, and I've got to fetch one last crewmember. He's our Secret Keeper, and while I could go get your coin, I can't rightly leave him to his fate. Can I?"

"He's meeting his fate in Lecce?" Remus looked around skeptically. "And why would a captain let anyone else be her Secret Keeper?" It would take quite a lot of trust for a smuggler to trust someone else that much. This other crew member was family or a lover, had to be. Not that either could really be trusted in any case. Nyt was much less intelligent than he had given her credit for.

"Well, might be that I exaggerated my position a bit when we were first negotiating. William, our captain, will honour my deal, but we have to save him too. You don't have to help."

No he really didn't, Remus thought. "If you think I'm letting you out of my sight before I'm paid, you have another thing coming. Where's your captain, Nyt?"

"He's in Tarsus, Turkey." Nyt's eyes flickered away nervously, and Remus knew why immediately.

"Your captain was sent to Vociferor? You really think you can save him from The Killing Fields?" Remus didn't smile or waiver in his gaze. "You're insane."

"I assumed you already knew that about me. Coming?"

* * *

How could one person surround themselves with so much pink? Isobel pondered. The classroom she was slouching in had pink walls and drapes with round pink flowers. The professor's desk had pink trim painted on, and an overfull vase of pink carnations sat on the surface, scenting the room with its pink sweetness. The woman behind the desk stood quietly, her pudgy sausage fingers locked together over her round stomach, which of course was covered in a pale pink sweater.

The other students hadn't yet noticed the professor's stare. They were still chattering and punching each other, but her silent gaze was noticed fairly quickly, spreading through the class like a disease. Everywhere it reached, mouths closed and children sat down. No one wanted to be the last person standing. That unlucky student might get a detention, and detention with Dolores Umbridge was not to be courted lightly.

"Hem hem," Professor Umbridge said to the now quiet, motionless class. "We have finished your skills orientation work up. Since we know you are far less than a Class I or II witch or wizard, we can get you started on your own path earlier without wasting your time in history or Latin. You should all be proud. You will be taught skills, honorable professions. And those professions will be tailored to enhance your limited abilities."

The professors who had questioned and prodded and measured them for most of the summer were coming around with envelopes. A flat piece of correspondence addressed simply, Isobel Green arrived on her desk, but she didn't rip into it like so many of the other children. She waited for Professor Umbridge to step away from her desk and dismiss the class. Then she grabbed her letter and made a run for the exit.

Harry was going to be so disappointed.

"Izzy! Wait!" a tallish chubby girl called. "What does your letter say?"

"Go away, Joey," Isobel commanded. "I haven't looked."

"You have to look." Joey held her letter up triumphantly. "I'm a greenie. My natural tendencies lean strongly toward plant care. I'm going to be a gardener!"

"Great, you get to dig in the dirt and encourage plants to get up and grow with plenty of natural fertilizer." Isobel rolled her eyes. "I can see why you're thrilled."

Joey's smile vanished, and she frowned coolly. "You know what your problem is? You think you're too good for class III or IV, but you aren't. You'd be lucky to get as nice a skill-set as greenie. I hate to think where they've put you with your attitude, but I doubt it's going to be pleasant." Without giving Isobel a chance to respond, she spun on her heel and joined a cluster of other students and their open letters.

Wanting to scream at someone didn't mean she should scream at her friends, but Isobel didn't even try to apologize. Joey didn't know anything. It wasn't that she thought she was better. She just couldn't bear for her big brother to find out she was less.

* * *

Far removed from London on a quiet, scantily populated mountain, George practiced his Transfiguration. Using his wand without speaking, he glared at the stone resting motionless on the ground. He was going to Transfigure it into a bird, and he was not going to say the bloody incantation to do it. Moody was pleased with few things, but his student's transfiguration work had been a positive point. And George was determined to make the man release him before the summer was over. Fred was still out there waiting for his brother to find him. Moody was just another obstacle on that road.

His Master, Moody, was out getting supplies today, and with a little practice, George would be ready to impress when the old codger made it home.

At least that was the plan before his afternoon visitor crashed through the trees. A troll, tall and grubby and gray, stalked into the clearing, sniffing at the air. George stared without moving as the lumbering creature clomped its way toward Moody's kitchen where dinner was simmering over the fire.

George considered making a run for it, but Moody's orders had been rather specific about him not going anywhere, and he couldn't disobey his master, as he'd proved through repeated trial. Trying to get out of the yard was unlikely to result in anything but his untimely death at the end of the troll's spiked club.

This was an opportunity, George decided suddenly, a chance to prove to Moody that he was ready to be released. He thought about it for several seconds, trying to think of a spell or jinx or anything that he could cast with complete confidence and disable a troll. Then it hit him.

Now that he had a spell and a concept, George extended his wand and concentrated on making the effect big enough to handle his rather large target. Think huge, George told himself, think really big. "Evanesco," he hissed, not bothering with wordless magic as he needed every possible flicker of strength he could put into the spell. If he hadn't cast this well, there would be an angry Troll headed his way rather soon. But he needn't have worried. The ground under the troll's feet literally vanished and the lumbering creature fell out of sight with an earth shaking crash.

George was so excited with his obvious triumph that he didn't notice how well he'd cast the spell until Moody's hut started to list toward the opening. The Troll had been close to the hut, and George's vanishing spell had removed most of the dirt actually supporting Moody's home. "No," George said. "Stay."

But the hut didn't listen. With a groan of timbers, the dwelling split down the middle and crashed into the hole on top of the troll.

The tantalizing smell of rabbit stew still wafted on the wind. "Well isn't that just lovely," George said.

"I disagree. It isn't lovely, but it's functional," Moody growled from the cover of the trees. He moved forward, surprisingly quiet despite his awkward, limping stride. "Nice work. I think you might almost be ready to move forward."

"Ready to move forward?" George's face lit up. "I've been ready for months."

* * *

A new transportation circle appeared in the main hall of the group home. Hermione took note of it on her way to breakfast, and decided it could mean only one thing. Summer Quidditch was over, and the players would be coming home. Normally, Hermione picked the spot she studied by where Isobel was likely to go and find trouble, but this morning she grabbed her Transfiguration text and slipped into one of the window seats in the entry hall. The drapes where ancient brocade and so dusty that they had abandoned all colour for grey, but it was a nice safe spot to watch and read.

The Quidditch players started arriving before she finished the introduction to chapter thirteen, Transfiguring Ceramics and China. Hermione closed the book and devoted her attention to watching the players return. An entire summer on a broom seemed to be a fairly good activity for putting colour in one's skin and a smile on one's face. Hermione's own hands were positively pasty. She had spent her days reading and studying.

Harry was going to be very much behind on his summer reading, Hermione decided with an internal snort. When he finally did appear, he fitted right in with the other players. His smile was in place and they welcomed him into their lingering group. Harry had a tendency to do that: slide into groups seamlessly, make friends. It wasn't that Hermione was jealous of that ability, but she wished her friend wasn't everyone's friend sometimes. She had no desire to interact with a dozen Quidditch players, but she had planned to say hello. His gregariousness was making her life too difficult.

She could have sworn he glanced her way, then he broke off from the other Quidditch players and headed for her comfortably secluded window seat. "I could have sworn I saw a bit of brown bushy hair winking at me over here," Harry joked. He pulled back the curtain and joined Hermione without an invitation. "So why are you lurking over here?"

"I'm not lurking." Hermione held up her closed Transfiguration book. "I was studying before the commotion."

"Okay," Harry said without conviction. "Good summer?"

"Passable. I read some essays you should try." She slid one out of the back of her text and passed it over to Harry. "I was going to reread that one today when I finished with chapter thirteen." She patted her textbook.

He glanced at the title, Current Educational Darwinism, a Tool for Efficiency or Oppression? By Melinda Potter. "Wow, I would read it, really, but I haven't finished my Ecology reading yet, or that Spell Casting essay. I'm sorry?"

"No you aren't." Hermione snatched the essay back and sighed. "Of course you would come back from Quidditch camp and try to fit an entire summer's worth of homework into one week." She threw the curtain back and jumped down. "You should really go see your sister. She missed you, and we won't be here long."

* * *

Commissioned portraits were a major challenge of Bart Potter's existence. The wealthy always wanted their lives preserved through legacies like children and portraits. Of course paintings you intended to enchant and give life required truth of subject. You had to do a good, near lifelike likeness. And for the bucktoothed, overweight, and pimple-ridden of his clients, that often meant dissatisfaction. Not that he was complaining. Bart drew a fine camel-hair brush along the jaw line of his current commission. He worked for a living just like Melinda had for all those years. And while she had retired, he hadn't... yet. He wasn't ready to take down his shingle and just paint for fun. For fun: the idea just bled some of the purpose out of his daily ritual of heading to the studio.

A paying customer's portrait wasn't about art. It was his job to minimize the negative, emphasize the positive, and still get a nice solid animation out of the finished project. After spending the morning trying to minimize Madame Kachadoria's gargantuan overbite, Bart was ready for a nice break, some sugar cookies, and maybe a spot of tea.

On his way downstairs he passed Melinda's study and glimpsed her pacing the floor. Another vitally important position paper had sparked her inspiration. With a frown he continued toward the kitchen. His wife had been worked up for weeks, studying, reading, and writing with almost every waking hour. It wasn't unusual for her, but she wasn't talking about what had her excited, and that wasn't typical. Bart was accustomed to being his wife's sounding board. She had always liked to hear her ideas. They crystallized when she said them aloud. At least that was what she had always claimed.

Setting the teapot on the burner, Bart's frown deepened. Maybe she had a new sounding board? Albus Dumbledore, maybe? Lighting the burner with his wand, he paused over the sugar biscuit jar and patted his paunch thoughtfully. Maybe he would leave off the biscuits for now. Losing a couple of pounds wouldn't be a bad idea.

"Making tea?" Melinda threw herself into a kitchen chair. "Please make a bit for me."

Bart nodded. "Of course. How is the new project coming along?"

"Very well," Melinda said. "I've completed the second draft, and I'll be turning it in to Albus soon."

"You've been spending a lot of time at his tower lately, working. He must be very helpful for getting your ideas out." Bart turned back to the biscuit jar and pulled out a few of his favourites. "Biscuit?"

Melinda stared across the kitchen at her husband, suddenly achingly aware of the secrets she was keeping from him. But she knew her Bart. If she told him that his grandchildren were alive and having dinner a few miles down the road, he wouldn't be able to wait for Albus's carefully planned depopulation. He was too passionate to listen to logic when it came to his family. "I've been writing a series of articles about Rutilus Terminus, a minor plague that struck the Americas seven years ago. Some medical scholars think it will reemerge this year, on its anniversary. I'm just exploring the possibility for a few publications."

"A few publications?" Bart snorted, not quite believing Melinda's explanation. "From socialist revolutionary, to sports journalist, to medical gossip monger? I'm having a hard time following the plan behind your retirement."

"Retirement isn't required to make sense," Melinda said.

"No, I suppose not. But there should be some rest involved. Don't you think?"

* * *

Remus, Nyt, and a small band of her smugglers didn't travel to Tarsus and simply launch a raid Vociferor, not at first. Remus urged cautious planning, so they made camp nearby and settled in to watch the Field function, to formulate a plan. For seven days, they watched the Wardens come and go. Men and women in flowing, crimson robes came and went at seemingly random intervals. Some did their work at night. Some stayed inside the enclosure for days at a time. Though it was an open field only bounded by walls, no sound or smell ever escaped the boundaries. Warded for containment, Remus assumed early on.

"I thought crimson was an educator's colour," Nyt had said one night.

"It is," Remus had replied. "They are teaching Turpin's final lesson."

Eventually a plan was formulated. Two of them would infiltrate the Field wearing the crimson robes of a Warden. Together they would locate William, and using a bit of spell-work, ensure that he was taken out at dawn with the dead. The rest of the team would wait at the pyre where the dead were burned and save him from the fire.

Remus felt uncomfortable wearing the red robes and gold armband of his disguise, but he stood still and waited for Nyt to finish dressing. She emerged from behind a bush, not only clothed in her disguise, but wearing a new older face and darker hair color. She adjusted her armband and fidgeted with the flow of her robes, ruining what should have been an intimidating effect. Her eyes will give her away, Remus thought fleetingly. She couldn't extinguish the light there.

"You know these fake gold third tier armbands are enough to get a girl sentenced to this place," Nyt said as she nervously twisted hers again.

"I've been under a death sentence since I was fifteen," Remus replied. "They can't exactly kill me twice." He frowned at Nyt. "You need to stop fidgeting. Field Wardens don't fidget or smile or..."

Nyt's eyes went suddenly hard and she stopped fidgeting abruptly. "You don't think I can do mean?" she asked coolly. "Don't worry, wolf, I survived my cousins. And they could eat a measly little Warden for breakfast. I know how to blend in with evil."

There was no need to argue the point. The change that had come over her face was sobering, but Remus still had a niggle of doubt in his mind. Could she really fake this when they were faced with whatever was behind that gate? Could he? "We should both keep our hoods up," Remus cautioned. "They don't seem a social lot, but there's no reason to announce our identities."

"This isn't my first trip to the fair." Nyt pulled her hood up and walked sedately toward the path that led the gates of Vociferor.

Remus stared after her, his heart pounding faster now. This was completely crazy. They were just going to walk into the emperor's Killing Field, rescue the smugglers' captain and walk back out. They were out of their mind to consider it. Yet Remus pulled his hood up and followed after Nyt.

Those ominous unguarded gates loomed close all too soon. Tall and neat and black, they threatened silently. Remus felt a slight tingle as he passed through the wards at the gate, and entered the dark screaming world of Vociferor. The smell of long overdue death -- human waste, blood, and sweat mingled together in a stifling miasma that choked Remus. He had to fight to keep his face impassive and his stomach contents in place.

There were corrals along the hall containing individual witches and wizards, but Remus didn't look at them. Nyt had passed them by. They weren't the man they sought.

Though he could turn away from the scenes within the corrals, he couldn't turn away from the near continuous screaming. Some screamed for obvious reasons. There were wardens in their corral, exacting their punishments. Others screamed alone in the dark, perhaps reliving the horrors of their inhumanely drawn out execution. Remus wanted to lift his hands to his ears and scream his own screams, to block out the terrible sound, but he kept walking steady and slow, keeping sight of Nyt.

Their interminable walk ended when Nyt abruptly stopped and entered a prisoner's corral. Remus considered following her, but he had learned from their slow trudge through the maze of Vociferor that wardens worked alone, and he didn't dare draw attention by breaking from that norm. He couldn't exactly linger in the passageway either. Thinking quickly, Remus entered a room across from Nyt and her captain where he could observe and be ready to move.

At first Remus ignored the unconscious man strapped to the table at the center of the room. But his eyes strayed toward him again and again. He was another broken, bloody travesty - mercifully unconscious. A thick mat of greasy black hair obscured his face, and medicinal poultices covered his wounds, healing him to suffer again.

Remus was glad of the obstructive hair, glad to not have a face or eyes to associate with this moment of horror. Remus wasn't sure he would be able to walk away and not help a man with eyes.

A strange, terrible thing happened as Remus stood watching. The man groaned and shifted. His matted hair fell to the side revealing the sallow, beak-nosed profile of a man Remus had quietly hated for his entire adult life. Severus Snape, the man who sold his identity to the werewolf hunters, who sold Remus's life for a silver armband, lay before him. Tortured beyond any punishments Remus had imagined for him, Severus wore no armband today.

Drawing his wand was instinctual and nearly instantaneous. Remus started down the line of his wand and forced himself to just breathe. No curses came flying off his lips as he had often imagined they would. In his childhood fantasies, Severus was wearing his ill-gotten armband and smirking disdainfully. This broken creature, Remus couldn't bring himself to punish further.

Quite suddenly, Snape's eyes opened and he jerked wildly at the sight of the red-robed figure hovering over him, wand-extended. But he didn't scream. For a moment Remus wondered if it was presence of mind or if his ability to speak had simply been damaged, but then Snape stopped struggling and started chuckling. "Am I finally dead then? They've sent the dirty wolf to escort me to Hell." Snape laughed again, this time until he was coughing and gasping for air.

For his part Remus said nothing. The tremor in his wand hand alone betrayed his engagement in the moment.

"Angels of death should not tremble so," Snape scolded, his face hardening. "I must conclude that you are not my freedom, Wolf, but a fake, a facsimile set to confuse my mind, to torture my soul as you've tortured my body. You think you can torture me with regrets! I have no regrets!"

"Spoken like a man with nothing but regrets," Remus whispered. He lowered his wand and turned toward the door's window, to make sure Nyt was still occupied with her Captain. "I'm not here for you, Severus. Our encounter is an unhappy accident. I've no intention of killing you or punishing you. Vociferor seems to torture far more efficiently than I ever could have."

"You would leave a man in this place?" Severus whispered after a moment. "At the very least you should kill me, wolf. Killing is in your blood. You know you want to kill me. I stole your life." The smile growing across his face danced with a strange hopeful mania. "Kill me!"

"There are hundreds of men and women in this place, hundreds. Why would I choose to release you, when I daren't help any of them?" Remus crossed the room in three steps. "You'll die when the Wardens tire of flaying you alive, not before."

"Wolf," Snape hissed the word like a profanity. "I can barter my release. Valuable information is in my head. I was a spy, a spy for Albus Dumbledore. Protect him and his pitiful revolution. Follow your nature, wolf. Kill your enemy."

* * *

A bowl of miso soup sat untouched and cooling in front of Lily. She rested her head on her fist and watched the bartender cleaning a stack of glasses the Muggle way with a white cloth. Living in a Vietnamese brothel wasn't as uncivilized as she had expected. The dancers had loaned her some clothes as she hadn't packed for a protracted stay, and the walls were surprisingly soundproof. Of course, living here hadn't been the plan, but leaving James was difficult. Lily knew that she should go back west and continue her traitor hunt with Sirius. She had written a dozen times with no response from him. It was her responsibility to finish. Besides, the sooner she got Sirius free to come east, the sooner James could come home. Newly resolved to leave, she took a quick sip of her soup. She would wait until James and the rest returned, and then she'd set out for home.

The early evening chatter in Vietnamese was like bird song: pretty, soothing, and nonsensical to Lily. But it was what brought her downstairs for dinner. The melodious chattering relaxed her. Lily didn't look up at first when the doors opened to allow six strangers in. Sure it was a bit early, but it was a brothel. People came and went, and they didn't appreciate being stared at. When the comforting chattering began to fade and finally vanish, Lily turned to see who had arrived. The six strangers wore matching black travelling cloaks, but the only feature Lily could focus on was their glowing red eyes. They were Reapers, she realized with a sickening lurch in her stomach. These were the monsters James and Sirius spent so many hours contemplating, trying to understand and destroy.

Her heart thudding in her throat, Lily looked down at her soup and wished that she'd taken dinner upstairs. As a group they claimed a corner booth, but one broke away and approached the bar. He sat next to Lily and barked a long list or orders in rapid fluent Vietnamese at the bartender. She was trying not to look, but Lily couldn't help staring out of the corner of her eye. He was young, too young, all red hair and freckles. He couldn't be more than sixteen. A Reaper?

The bartender nodded nervously and started setting bottles of sake out.

Cautiously, Lily set the money for her soup on the bar and slid off her stool, trying to escape. She barely made it a step when the young Reaper had grabbed her by the arm. Achingly aware of her clothes, and that she was dressed like an employee, Lily tried to breath normally. He shouted a question in a suggestive tone toward the bartender. God, he's asked what you cost, Lily thought with a sickening wrench. Her wand was in her pocket. He would get a surprise if he tried to bed her against her will.

The Reaper pulled her close, and ran a hand suggestively across her chest. He lifted a handful of her hair and breathed deep. Then as suddenly as he had begun to grope her, he stopped. Another of the Reapers, another child, this one a pretty blond girl, slapped him and turned a murderous stare on Lily.

She'll kill me, Lily thought. And her only chance to defend herself was hopelessly trapped in the inner pocket of the pale blue dress she had borrowed. The blond pushed her companion behind her, before turning her wand on Lily with a flurry of wordless hexes.

Lily choked on her screams as the spells hit her. They soaked through her skin, burning all the way to her bones. As though the infliction of agony were an aphrodisiac, the two Reapers embraced and kissed over Lily's writing form.

No one in the bar dared approach the suffering woman to help her. A Reaper's fun was not to be hindered. The music resumed tentatively and people went about their business cautiously.

Once the pain had passed, and Lily dared open her eyes again, the world looked different, washed out and colourless. She was still in the bar, now sprawled in the floor. Conversations had resumed, but they were strained and quiet. Using a nearby barstool, Lily was able to pull herself into a sitting position.

And she stared at her hands.

Her fingers looked swollen, knobbly, and they were covered in a thick layer of viscous slime. Lily gasped in a lungful of air and struggled to control her temper. She'd been hexed with some sort of slime skin because the bitch's boyfriend had groped her. Lily scanned the room until she spotted the Reaper who had done the casting. The woman was cuddled next to her lover, but she was looking toward Lily and giggling uncontrollably.

As much as she wanted to cast a few hexes at the psychotic creature, Lily mastered her rage and looked away. If half the stories were to be believed, she was lucky to be alive. Now she just needed to get word to James not to come back here. Using the barstool as a crutch, Lily was able to regain her feet, though she was too sore to straighten up completely. Her feet were swollen and grey as well. Her slippers now four sizes too small, were encased in the puddle of the slime she had secreted... as was her long red hair. Lily's breath caught in her throat when she realized that the curtain of hair that normally rested on her shoulders wasn't slicked down with slime and still attached to her.

The blond bitch was laughing louder now, obviously enjoying Lily's discomfiture. For her part, Lily straightened as best she could and headed to the stairs without speaking or touching her head. She refused to give that creature the satisfaction. Mentally shivering at the disgusting squishing her every motion created, Lily climbed the stairs.

As soon as she reached the landing, out of view from the bar, some of the girls rushed to her side. They ushered her to the room she had shared with James for so many weeks and quickly sealed the door. One of the girls had turned the mirror toward the wall. Lily winced to think how she must look for them to think removing the mirror was a kindness.

One of the dancers stepped forward with a Translation Conch. "We sent for the Healer. You will be okay."

Lily nodded and tried to speak, but her throat felt thick -- wrong. "Healer." She managed to choke around a long stream of slime that flowed from her open mouth. She winced at the sound of her voice but she had to speak now. She needed their help. "Warn James," she croaked. "Reapers."

The girls looked at each other nervously. But the girl with the conch nodded to Lily. "They always stop in the garden before coming in. I will intercept them."

The dancers hurried from the room. Judging from their stiff expressions, remaining in her company was not pleasant at the moment. Lily watched them go, hunched and terrified. The Healer was going to fix her, and at least James would be safe. She looked at her misshapen lumpy hands and shuffled resolutely to the mirror. If she were smart she would wait for the Healer and never look at what had been done to her, but Lily needed to know. She turned the mirror around and tried to stand straight. A hopeless endeavour, she realized quickly. She wasn't stiff. Her spine was twisted, curved. She grimaced, but it wasn't a human face grimacing back. Flat lidless, yellow, circles had replaced her human eyes under a layer of slime. Her grey skin sagged loosely on the new amphibian bone structure of her face. Her arms and legs had drawn down into spindly sticks with swollen, meaty hands and feet. Her breasts sagged down the sides of her newly grown, fish-belly-white bulbous abdomen. It had literally burst through the blue dress, shredding it.

A gut wrenching sob welled inside her, bubbling from her too-wide frog-mouth as a reverberating croak that she couldn't control for several long embarrassing moments.

Lily slapped her slimy hands over her mouth and fought the waves of sobs threatening to roll out of her as croaks and rumbles.

High-pitched, gleeful laughter floated up from downstairs, and Lily lost her hold on her tears. Hysterical sobs filled the room with guttural croaks, and slime streamed steadily from her mouth, coating the floor until it trickled into the hall and down the stairs.

* * *

The smuggler's captain, William, looked like Hell. He was bruised and bloodied and unconscious. But he was alive, and that was everything at the moment. All this for killing a guard, all this for Maggie, Nyt thought bitterly. Back in England while the smugglers were in holding cells awaiting adjudication, a guard decided to have a little fun with the ladies. He stunned the wandless girls and entered their cell, but the genius didn't stun the men in the cell next to them. William got an arm around the pervert's neck, and didn't let go until the bastard wasn't breathing. He protected his Maggie.

"I told you being a gentleman was overrated," Nyt whispered. She stroked his thick brown hair back off his sweaty forehead, achingly aware that this would be the last time she'd ever touch him like this. She had loved him since she was a scrawny teenager, though he had never returned the sentiment in more than a brotherly way. Now he had Maggie, who he loved completely. And honestly, Nyt was tired of fighting for someone who had never even been able to see her. "Time to get you out of here, Captain," she said abruptly. Time to move on.

"Tardus Vita," she cast. A shimmer of blue settled over his skin. His heart slowed and his breathing seemed to stop. His life signs had slowed to the point that they were indiscernible from death. Now she and Remus just needed to walk away and let them discard this dead prisoner with the rest.

The gate behind her banged and Nyt spun, a hex on her lips, but it was just Remus. "Idiot, I could have hexed you," she snapped. "I'm coming. He's under."

"Not yet," Remus said. "We have a problem." He pointed to a red flag attached to the door. "Those turn black when the occupant dies. He won't be taken with the dead if we don't fix it."

Nyt didn't ask Remus how he knew about the flag. She reached under her robes and withdrew a small dagger. Then she split the seams holding the black lining of her robes in place and extracted a neat square of material. "Sticking charm and we're in business," she said.

Together they attached the black material over the red flag to keep from interfering with any possible wards. "Now we need to go," Remus said. "I want to be clear of this place before dawn."

Tweaking the droopy flag nervously, Nyt nodded. This time she let Remus lead the way, retracing their path through the maze of human misery until they were free, walking through fresh clean air. The predawn felt silent and strangely bright after the darkness and the screams of Vociferor.

Nyt continued to follow Remus, the terrible smells, screams, and images still fresh in her mind. She followed Remus and prayed that the remainder of their plan went forward smoothly. She didn't think she could walk into that place again.

* * *

Holding the translation conch, Pai was waiting when the Animagi appeared from the forest. She greeted them after the shimmer of their change had passed. "You can not enter," she said simply. "We are entertaining Turpin's Reapers. They seek your companion, the dog. We have told them nothing, but you must go, and you may not return."

"Thank you," James said. "But Lily? Is she still here? I have to make sure she's safe."

"She is safe," Pai lied smoothly. No woman would want her lover to see her in the state Lily was in tonight. "Go."

James sighed and nodded. "Did she leave a letter, any word?"

"She is going home," Pai replied. "She will see you soon." With that she turned away and hurried back inside. Croaking noises were trailing down the stairs, Pai noted quickly, as was an unpleasant stream of black slime. The Reaper who had cursed the westerner seemed to find no end to the amusement of listening to the croaks of pain. She was laughing with every other breath. Pai sniffed. The smell was no laughing matter. The slime was emitting an odour like a rotten cabbage baking in the sun.

At least the Healer had made it to the bar, she noted with relief. A young man, he was sitting and drinking. One of the youngest girls was on her hands and knees scrubbing the mixture of slime and hair off the barroom floor from where Lily had changed. Pai touched the Healer's elbow and bowed. They needed to do something about their guest before they were swimming in the disgusting slime.

He smiled at Pai and followed her upstairs, seeming to understand the need for caution downstairs without being told. He frowned at the slime they were forced to wade through but trailed the river to its source. Lily was curled in a corner of the room, sobbing out croaks and slime in an unending river. The Healer nodded to Pai and pointed to the door. "I will see to her." Pai took a moment to hand the Healer the Translation Conch before taking her leave.

With a sigh, he crossed to Lily's side where the slime was deepest. He took her by the arm, pulled her around, and slapped her soundly. The croaking stopped abruptly, though slime continued to flow languidly out of her open mouth. "I am the Healer, Heiko. What is your name?"

It took a moment, but her jaw started working. "Lily," she managed to strangle out.

The Healer winced and patted Lily's gooey shoulder. "I will do my best to keep the questions, yes and no, but you try to answer as honestly as you can?" Lily nodded. "Good. Those red-eyed creatures, are they really Reapers?" Lily nodded. "And this hex was performed by one of them?" Lily nodded again. "Did you hear the incantation? Any word could be helpful." Lily shook her head no.

The Healer smiled faintly and took a sample of the slime. He set his instruments from a small bag out on the table and began running tests on the black liquid. After a few moments he chuckled humourlessly, and turned back to Lily. "I'll tell you what I know, and I need you to try to help me put together what led to this. They have transfigured you into a form of Bog Golem. Fortunately, I recognize the species. They aren't the fashionable punishment they were a few centuries ago, but the witch who hexed you is ancient enough to have used something interesting. I'm assuming it was one of the witches, and that you used to be a reasonably pretty girl." He waited for Lily's nod. "Did you have an intimate moment with one of the men? The legends say the Reapers are paired and possessive, that they can be quite vindictive for the slightest offence." Lily nodded, unable to enunciate the groping that lead to her current state.

"That's enough for now," Heiko said. He returned to his bag and extricated a potion. "I want you to sip this throughout the night, every hour until I return tomorrow. It should help, but it isn't a cure. I know you don't want to continue to change, and this should stop the spell from progressing."

Lily's yellow eyes widened. She'd assumed the change was over. When she tried to stand, to go to the mirror and see if she had lost more of her humanity, she couldn't rise. The curve of her spine had twisted again so that she had to shuffle awkwardly on all fours, just to move. A choked croak bubbled out of her, the sound of her sobs.

"Quiet now." Heiko pushed Lily back into her corner as she croaked her horror. "You have to keep your wits about you and drink the potion. Don't sleep, don't miss an hour. Drink until I return." Heiko waited for Lily to stop croaking and nod her understanding. "Every hour," he repeated. "Now I fear the proprietor will throw you out at first smell. In your current state, the aroma isn't discernable, but you stink like rotting vegetables. If he comes tonight and you are expelled, go into the woods and let your instincts lead you to the river. Your instincts will be strong now." He smiled at Lily as though he could still see the girl who needed his help, through the hideous shell. "Keep your wits about you. Drink the potion. I'll find you if you aren't here."

* * *

It was already burning when Remus and Nyt arrived at the pyre. William was safe and being tended by his Maggie. The bodies on the pyre were just the dead, the lucky ones that Vociferor had finally released. Nyt made no move to rejoin the other smugglers or to interrupt Maggie's ministrations. She lingered back and watched with Remus beside her. "How did you figure out about the flag," she asked suddenly. "It was very convenient."

At first she thought that Remus wouldn't answer. He gazed silently at the blazing pyre as the bodies of the dead were consumed. "A man I once knew begged me to kill him. I took pity on him."

Nyt nodded and turned toward the flames, unable to find the right words to comfort or commiserate. The Field was far more horrible than she had imagined it could possibly be. It ate at her soul that they had walked past so many people suffering without helping them. Remus had risked their lives by acting, but she couldn't fault him for it. "What you did for your friend was a mercy. You can't feel guilty for that."

"I never said he was my friend," Remus intoned emotionlessly. "Hating him has been a constant in most of my life. Hating the dead, does that make me evil?"

"No wolf." Nyt hadn't expected such vehemence about the man he had killed. She hadn't expected hate. "Hating him, and still leaving him in that place would have been evil." She reached out to him, touched his shoulder. "You are..."

"I am a wolf." Remus shrugged her hand away. "And we kill our enemies, best not to forget it."

* * *

Heiko need not have worried about the proprietor casting Lily out. After the Reapers had their evening of fun, they set the brothel on fire and killed anyone who tried to extinguish their bonfire. Lily smelled the smoke, and potion in hand, she crawled to the door. But it was locked. They locked her in. She need only cast a simple Alohamora to open it, but when she fumbled her wand free from what remained of her dress, she couldn't make the magic work. Tears of frustration bled into the ichor on her face. With a frustrated croak she shuffled to the window and crawled out onto the steeply sloping roof. The slime exuding from her every pore worked against her, lubricating any chance she had of not sliding off in an uncontrolled heap.

From the ground, Lily croaked pitifully. At least she hadn't broken her neck. Lucky girl. She lifted her hand holding the Healer's potion, scared that it would be shattered and empty. All that remained of what had been a flask of bitter white liquid was a splintered stem. Unlucky girl. Another croak slipped past her lips, and Lilly licked what she could of the potion off the grass. Looking up at the burning building one last time, she scrambled forward into the woods. Moving as quickly as she could, Lily followed the smell of the river. Heiko had been right, her instincts were strong if she could smell something as subtle as the water when she was surrounded by the smoke of a burning building. She hurried, first awkwardly and slowly; running became easier as her change continued. She wasn't running so much as run-jumping by the time she reached the river.

The river was a safe place. Lily knew it was an instinct of her current form and not logical, but when she found the water, wading in made her feel calm, at home. She submerged herself past her broad mouth, leaving only her golden eyes and slit-like nostrils exposed. Her round belly cramped from hunger, and Lily moved instinctually digging in the mud until she had a handful of slugs in hand. Her rational mind seemed to be slipping away, taking a back seat to the instinct of this form. She watched and tried to exert her will, but Lily had no say in what was happening now. The slugs were sliding down her throat and now the croaks were coming not as sobs but as calls for a colony. The Bog Golem was seeking others of its kind.

Lily panicked, struggling to regain control. If she slipped into a colony of these things, Heiko might never find her. She wasn't going to live like an animal for the rest of her life. She wasn't going to live the life that the Reaper had planned for her. Lily screamed, human in her own mind, and silenced the creature living in her skin, for the moment.

* * *

James transformed from his stag form abruptly and spun around. "It's not right," he said. The other Animagi came toward him, transforming back to their human forms.

"Say again, Admiral?" Edgar asked. "What's not right?"

"Lily would never have delegated meeting us in the garden. She wouldn't have left until she was sure we were safe." James stared back the way they'd come. "Am I the only who is smelling smoke?"

"No sir," Edgar said. "We all smell it. And it just means we keep moving. She can't be back there now, can she? It's burning. We have to move forward."

James didn't answer for a long moment then he turned to the soldiers. Fire took his children. What if Lily was still back there? "I'm turning command over to Edgar. Get to safety. I'll find you at the rendezvous point." James returned to his stag form and raced back into the woods.

* * *

Bent low over his ecology essay, Harry scribbled frantically, while his sister sprawled at the end of his bed and kicked her legs. The steady jolts to his bed weren't helping him concentrate, but he was hard pressed to find the heart to scold her. He hadn't seen her in three months and he missed the pest. Harry stopped mid-sentence on his ecology essay. What were the odds that they'd have an ecology lesson first day back? He could just finish the essay when he made it back to school. With a definite snap, he closed his ecology text. "Okay, dwarf, what have you been up to?"

"Absolutely nothing," Isobel said despondently. "I wish you weren't going to school so soon. I swear you weren't here for two weeks all summer."

"Enjoy it," Harry quipped. "In two years you'll be in school with me and waxing nostalgic over the days when your brother wasn't in your face so much."

"Whatever," Isobel muttered. "Maybe I don't want to go to your school?"

"Right, cause everyone wants to go to class IV and weave rugs for a living, or better, herd Flobberworms!" Harry chuckled at his own joke, but Isobel frowned darkly.

"My friend Joey is going into Class III or IV as a Greenie Specialty. And she's happy."

Harry winced as though Isobel had just said her friend was sick or crazy or had bad personal hygiene. "Yeah, there were several kids in my age group that got bumped out of the real classes early. I almost envied them not having to learn Latin." Isobel still wasn't smiling so Harry decided to get her laughing. Nine-year-olds started Latin, and insulting each other was always the first thing they learned to do. "Vobis nidor tanquam oryx." He waited for Isobel to translate and get offended, but she just scowled at him blankly.

"Speak English you blockhead," Isobel commanded.

"Come on, Dwarf, you know that much Latin by now." Harry ruffled his sister's hair but she rolled off the bed and away from him. Her bottom lip had slid forward, threatening tears, and Harry threw up his hands. "I was just kidding. Sorry."

"Latin is stupid, and I don't need it anyway," Isobel announced. She stalked over to her bedside and pulled a carefully folded letter out from under her pillow.

"Dear Ms. Green, You received your strongest recommendations from Professor Kilgore. This indicates a pre... a predi..." Isobel abruptly dropped the letter as her voice cracked, and she raced away.

Worried and more than a little confused, Harry stared after his sister for a long moment. Then he took the letter and read it for himself. "...A predisposition for metal works and crystal growing." Her friend Joey wasn't the only one prematurely pulled from classes. Harry had never felt more foolish, cocky, or insensitive. He had assumed that Isobel would follow him wherever he ended up. "Izzy! Come back," Harry called. "I'm sorry okay!" The other kids in the dorm, many of whom were trying to finish their summer homework, glared at him for shouting. Harry ignored them as he sprinted after his sister. Isobel was already long gone, but Hermione was sitting there on the hall floor reading another essay. He didn't bother to ask why she wasn't on her bed or in a chair. Hermione studied where she liked when she liked. "Izzy?" he asked.

She took one look at him and the letter in his hand. Then she nodded at the stairs. "Try the roof. She likes it up there."

"Thanks." Taking the stairs two at a time, Harry made for the roof. The never-locked rusty door handle turned easily, and he found her. She was sitting under an eave, her knees drawn up to her quivering chin. They had an expansive view of Old London and its rotting roofs from here. Of course it wasn't exactly a safe place to play. The roof sloped slightly and there was no guardrail. But Harry didn't tell Isobel she was going to break her neck coming out here. He held up her letter and smiled. "This looks pretty interesting, and no stupid Latin either. I don't know why you're upset." He took a seat beside her and stared out at the roofs.

"It means I'm stupid and useless," Isobel said. A few of the tears that had been swimming in her eyes fell, but she didn't break down sobbing. She made herself breathe steadily, be strong.

"Nah," Harry said. "Divination stones don't tell you who's smartest. Hermione is smartest in our year and the stones didn't set her first in class."

"No, they set you first in class." Isobel felt too ashamed to look at her brother. He had to be so disappointed in her. "I'm sorry."

Harry put his arm around his sister and pulled her close. "I don't care about a stupid stone, or what class you're in. You are my sister. I love you and will be proud of you, forever. Don't ever apologize to me for who you are. You are perfect."

With her big brother holding her and her secret finally out, Isobel felt better. She felt safe. She didn't feel perfect, but Harry thought she was. And she couldn't help reciprocating that feeling.

Isobel just wished she wasn't always being left behind.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Anyone who questioned whether James and Lily had been notified about their children, you read the clues last chapter well.

There is a lot coming at you in this chapter: Snape's death at Remus's hands, Lily's complete physical transformation at the hands of a Reaper, and the horror that is Vociferor. This is a dark chapter, in many ways another look at what makes Turpin's world unacceptable and inhumane. But I tried to sprinkle glimmers of light in. The bond between Harry and is sister is featured, as is his friendship with Hermione. George's hope to save his brother lives.

Yes, I left Lily at a cliff-hanger, one that I intend to resolve first thing next chapter. Next chapter will be about school and Riddle predominantly. Their time has come.

One final thing, forgive my brutalized attempt at a Latin sentence. I'm sure the grammar is atrocious.


	18. Connections

**Chapter 17 -- Connections**

**History of the World Volume VI Chapter 8 The Rule of Turpin - Soul**

_A spiritual identity, labeled most commonly as soul, is held by all things animate and inanimate. Emperor Turpin has been quoted on the topic, most recently in 1803 AD after a particularly bloody uprising based out of the Americas. "Time and struggle leech my joy, my very soul away until all that remains is an idea and a purpose. My idea is Utopia, a world of peace where every creature has its place. My purpose is ruling, warring, and killing. And it is enough reason to keep living."_

_Modern thinkers take this statement...

* * *

_

The world had gone dark and still. Submerged in a pool of stagnant water, Lily drifted away. She had lost her last grip on the world, on her life. No light remained, no hope.

But there was warmth.

Two stones knocked together on her chest, burning her. She lifted her hand through the darkness and wrapped it around the stones. Light seeped through her fingers, warm red and yellow melted through the dark until she was free, until she was home. Lily sucked in a lungful of clean wood-polish scented air. She opened her eyes on a world that she visited frequently in her dreams. She was in her home, her true home. The curtains were open wide, letting in the morning sunshine. Light seemed to fill every corner of the hall. She looked up the stairs just as her boys started down. James and Harry were together, talking about Quidditch by the sound of things. Her son was growing like a weed, too tall to be just twelve. She wanted to ruffle her hands through the wild hair he had inherited from his father. But she restrained herself. Twelve-year-old boys didn't want to be treated like babies.

"Morning, Mum." Harry gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek before heading past her toward the library. James took Lily by the hand and pulled her forward with them. Lily floated along in this lovely world, the best of her dreams.

They found her baby girl in the library. She was sitting cross-legged on the settee, wearing a pretty puffed-sleeve white dress and blue ribbons in her hair. A miniature stuffed unicorn pranced along the path of her thigh. Harry sat beside his sister and began pestering her immediately. He tugged at her hair, and stole one of her ribbons. James didn't see. He had walked to the bookshelf.

Lily opened her mouth to scold Harry, but she choked on the words. A foul taste filled her mouth and a steady river of black slime flowed out. No, Lily thought desperately. Her back spasmed and she felt her body twisting into a new form, a form that could neither rise nor speak. The colors faded out of the world until she saw only in a washed out field of grey.

And her baby was screaming. Isobel had climbed onto the arm of the settee. James rushed to his little girl and lifted her away from the monster on the floor. Lily wanted to explain to James that it was her, to beg him for help, but a mournful croak was all she could produce. James turned away from her. She was sinking into the river of black, the stagnant slime had returned for her.

"Mom?" Harry rose off the settee, but he didn't turn away. He waded through the back slime, sinking into it past his hips, but he continued to her side. "It's okay. I love you." Despite her form, he wrapped his arms around her and he held her. "Don't leave. Please?"

* * *

Lily awoke crying, her hands locked tight over the charms at her neck. She opened her mouth to gasp in a breath, and nothing flowed out except air. Afraid of what she would find she lifted her hands, slender human fingers and a tapered delicate wrist had returned. "God," she whispered, a simple monosyllable that no longer had to be wrenched from her throat.

The Healer, Heiko, entered the room with a tray of potions. When he realized that Lily was awake, his smile spread wider. Dropping the tray carefully on a table, he started chattering excitedly in Vietnamese.

Lily was too busy cataloging herself to worry about understanding her Healer at that moment. She ran her hands over her face, her neck. She traced the curve of her chest to her waist and threw back her blanket to reassure herself that she really was clean and human and whole all the way to her toes. Lily looked at her hands again, searching for any mark of the Bog Golem. There was nothing to find. She looked up at Heiko. "Is it over?" She tugged nervously at the men's sleeping shirt she was wearing, feeling suddenly exposed. "It has to be over."

Heiko threw his hands up dramatically. He rummaged around through a pile of goods at the foot of her pallet and brandished the translation conch. "Over the last week caring for you, I forgot that you did not speak my language. Welcome back, Lily. How do you feel?" His grin was broad and joyous.

Lily shivered, the memory of her transformation and the battle she had waged in her mind still too fresh and raw. "You saved me, healed me. Thank you seems inadequate, but thank you."

"You are welcome," Heiko said. "But I was paid for my call to the brothel, and the chance to work with a newly cursed Bog Golem for the past week has been more than enough payment for my ministrations. Bog Golems are a hobby my mentor passed along to me. There is a colony of them nearby."

"I don't even know what they are." Lily remembered the way the river had felt to the creature, the overwhelming pull of its instincts, and she shook her head, ready to forget.

"Oh, they are fascinating," Heiko said. "Wizard-made you know, a cursed species, like werewolves. They don't breed from what we've been able to tell. Every Golem in the current colony was once a human."

Lily blanched at the thought of other people imprisoned in the Bog Golem, trapped by the form and its mindless instincts. "Can't you help them?" Lily asked. "You helped me. Why don't you help them?"

His smiled faded to a hurt grimace, and Heiko took a step back. "You think me very cruel to ask such a question. If they could be helped, I would. This method of helping was mastered by experimentation on the Bog Golems of the colony." Heiko wasn't looking at Lily as he spoke. His eyes were focused past her, out through the window. "I striped away the cursed form and returned the human face and limbs and torso, so many lovely girls." He shook his head, a bitterly sad expression on his face. "But there was never anything left of them. Without the Bog Golem's instincts, they were empty marionettes, their human minds consumed long ago."

"Oh," Lily whispered. She had nearly been consumed. Her children's spirits had saved her. Lily wrapped her hand around her charms. Harry made her stay. "Do you put them out of their misery then? You don't keep them, do you?" The thought of this Healer keeping rooms of soulless girls suddenly terrified Lily.

"It would be tempting, but no, I've simply let them revert and return to their colony."

"You make them revert," Lily gasped. "Why?"

"I let them revert," Heiko corrected abruptly. "It takes work to keep a Bog Golem human. The potion brewing alone is a major undertaking. Do you enjoy making potions Lily?"

"But I'm not cured?" Lily rubbed the tips of her fingers together, looking for a hint of slime. She shook her head completely horrified. "I thought I was cured?"

"Curses are not so easily discarded," Heiko scolded, seemingly offended at her squeamishness. "Lycanthropy is still around for a reason. I can teach you a potion that will keep you human. You need never change forms again."

"No, it's not that. You are an amazing Healer, and I'm lucky you helped me. But I'm still cursed, only human by the grace of a well-brewed potion?" Lily robbed the tips of her fingers together again and again.

"You are both cursed and lucky," Heiko agreed. "You are the only one of your kind, a girl bearing the Bog Golem curse but free and human and of sound mind. A very lucky girl."

Lily nodded numbly, still rubbing her fingers together. "Can I see them, the colony? Can I see the unlucky ones?"

Heiko nodded solemnly. "I think you should."

* * *

"Wake up!"

Harry jerked awake, still hugging his pillow. He'd been having a vivid dream, a dream of his mother. Usually the dreams of his mum were indistinct things, happy glimmers of light and sound that followed him into wakefulness with a warm feeling of being loved and wanted and missed. This dream was different. Something dark was threatening his mother, clawing at her and tainting what was normally a joyful thing. Harry knew the dreams weren't a reflection of reality. Statistically speaking, his mother being alive at all was next to impossible. Why would he dream that something was trying to hurt his dead mother?

"Harry we have to get to the transportation circle. Do you want to go to school or not?" Hermione shouted. "Out of bed!"

He glanced at the clock ticking on the wall and cursed under his breath. Eight, already? "Crap, crap, crap." Harry scrambled out of bed and started stuffing the last of his things into his trunk. They had made their yearly supply run, which meant he had twice as much junk to get to school with.

Hermione had her trunk packed and was already dressed in their new second-year, yellow trimmed robes. The girls and boys came and went in each other's dorms, but they usually respected the mornings as a time when people were trying to get dressed. Harry grabbed his robes for the day and gestured at Hermione to leave.

"You really don't have time to be shy." She grabbed the handle on her trunk and headed for the exit.

Harry started getting dressed the moment her back was turned. He really didn't have time.

* * *

Rain misted lightly over the courtyard behind Malfoy manor, drenching the perfectly manicured, arcing topiaries of Narcissa's garden. Draco looked down at the garden from his bedroom window, already dressed and ready for school. He had rolled out of bed with his trunk packed and his clothes laundered and waiting. Mother ran a strict household, and her house-elves were so efficient that, for the most part, they were invisible, anticipating their masters' needs before the Malfoys knew what they needed. It didn't even occur to him to take his trunk with him downstairs. The house-elves would see to it.

The smell of breakfast: bacon, eggs, and something with cinnamon wafted from the dining hall. His mother and father were already seated. His dad was entertaining an associate, it seemed. Not unusual, but Draco was careful to sit so that the scar of his veto faced away from their guest. It wasn't a secret among any circles, but his father didn't need any family shame shoved down a business associate's throat.

"I can count on you to give this the highest priority," the sharp-faced guest asked. "We are fairly sure the perpetrators are based in your jurisdiction. The Wardens want no interference retrieving their prisoner or those who helped him."

Lucius nodded. "If my people pick up anyone bearing the mark of Vociferor, we'll just dump them back on the street. No one wants to get in the Wardens' way, Nott."

Narcissa smiled at Draco, ignoring the business talk. She served him eggs and toast and touched his hand for just a moment as she set the plate in front of him. "You look very handsome," she said quietly.

"Is this your son?" Nott asked suddenly, He turned his sharp brown eyes and narrow focus across the table. "Could you turn your head, boy, I've never actually seen a veto?"

Draco didn't stop stirring his eggs. He glanced to his father for direction, but Lucius was staring away, seemingly disinterested in the moment. Draco continued with breakfast, but he turned his head so that the visitor could have a nice long look at the white line running down his jaw.

"Did it hurt?" What should have been a commiserating question, sounded amused and unkind. "It must have."

"And how is your son?" Lucius asked. He turned back to Knott with a chilly smile. "I hear that Class III is offering some new specialties. What is his area? Some kind of dance, I heard. Is he good at it?"

Nott's malicious grin froze, and he directed his attention back to Lucius. "My son is Class II, as I'm sure you're aware, and the arts are pursued on all levels of education for those skilled in them."

"The arts," Lucius said with a chuckle. "Yes, of course."

"Couldn't we interest you in some breakfast, Governor Nott?" Narcissa poured herself a fresh cup of tea, regarding her houseguest with serene disinterest, seemingly oblivious to the tension shooting between him and her husband. "The house-elves waste so much, when we really eat so little." She waved at the steaming piles of food.

"I wish that I could stay, Lady Malfoy." He inclined his head sharply. "But I need to be going."

Both of the Malfoy men rose with Nott, and Lucius followed him out of the room. Draco dropped back into his seat, but he didn't resume eating right away. Discussion of the mark on his face and his life inevitably blunted his appetite. If it weren't for Riddle's Veto, he would be a real asset to his father, Class I, nearly the top of the class. How many of his colleagues could claim such children? He was even well ranked (for a twelve year old) in the Quidditch program.

"He really is quite proud of you," Narcissa said. She smoothed her starched napkin and placed it on her gleaming, unused plate. "Promise to be very careful at school, in Riddle's class especially. He doesn't like your father, and he could do anything to you for the least provocation."

"I'm aware, and I will," Draco said. "You be careful too." The caution might have seemed odd. It wasn't that his mother was likely to be engaged in any dangerous activities. Directing house-elves wasn't exactly risky, but she was delicate in a way he had sensed for most of his life without really understanding. Growing up around her obsessions, he had only realized as he grew older that they weren't normal. Some days she made the house-elves polish the silver over and over, some days she carved the topiaries in her garden, using her wand to perfect their smooth arcs for hours on end, and some days she scrubbed her hands until they were raw and red. His mother's peccadilloes were something his father chose to ignore. Lucius simply stayed away when she was at low ebb, the oddness of her obsessions most obvious. Draco was glad to escape her perfectly organized, gleaming home to go to school. But part of him worried about her, wandering the halls alone, chasing down imperfections and buffing them away.

"It's time to go." Lucius stood in the doorway, waiting. "I've got the circle primed."

Draco went to his mother before following his father to the door. He leaned down and kissed her on her smooth, pale cheek. "I'll see you at Solstice."

"At Solstice." She nodded. "Farewell."

* * *

Dragging his trunk along behind him, Ron cut through the crowds of students who had already deposited their trunks in their dorms and were now free to mill about visiting their friends. Of course, they had arrived on time for their transit through the transportation hub. His mother had run him late enough that he had missed his class' group transit and had been forced to wait through Class II, III, and IV's transportation groups before they could send him along with the other Class I stragglers.

The year two dorms were completely full when he finally made it in. There was a trunk sitting in front of every bed, except one. The beds were grouped along one wall, with desks against the other. Ron sighed and dragged his trunk over to the last unclaimed spot, wondering who he was stuck by for the year. It was probably Forest on one side. Forest was such a slob that his things generally crept into his neighbor's space, making dorm life one more degree of unpleasant.

While Ron was unpacking his robes, the door banged open and Harry and Draco came jogging through. They were windblown and both holding brooms. Harry's glasses had slid halfway down his nose.

"Ron, you made it," Harry called. "I saved you a spot." He stowed his broom carefully at the head of his bed, the bed next to Ron's. He nodded towards the broom and beamed. "A birthday present from Draco. What do you think?"

"Wow." Ron stared at the broom. It was streamlined and black, positively wicked. Draco bought Harry a birthday present? Ron hadn't got anyone a birthday present. It wasn't that it hadn't occurred to him, but he figured Hermione and Harry didn't have spending money for buying people things, and he didn't want to make anyone feel bad. "It's nice."

"Just a little payback for helping me with my birthday party," Draco said with a casual smirk. "Good summer, Weasley?"

"I suppose so," Ron groaned. "My mum was completely barmy all summer. She didn't want to let me out of her sight, her last baby at home."

"Oh, lord help him, Ron's mummy loves him too much," Hermione said sarcastically from the doorway. "Did your dad make you eat ice cream too? How did you ever survive?" She looked him up and down then added, "Yellow is not your color."

Ron turned to Hermione, frowning. She was neat as a pin in her new school robes, all except her hair. Its untamed riot was the only clue that an uncouth, Muggle-raised girl approached. Well, it was the only clue until she opened her mouth. "Do you have to be unpleasant to me first thing?" He turned to Harry. "I have to hang out with her. What's your excuse?"

Harry shrugged and smiled. "She's rather useful in a fist fight."

Hermione continued forward until she was standing next to Ron. Their bickering hadn't signaled a return to the wariness of their first year together. Bickering had turned into a bit of a ritual with them, a way to interact comfortably. "In the hall, they just announced an assembly for one o'clock. That's in twenty minutes. So I'm going."

"We'll walk with you," Harry said. Draco rolled his eyes, but did follow when they set out.

"What kind of assembly is it?" Ron asked. "The first year students will still be getting their supplies. It must not concern them?"

"I guess," Harry said. The students were all trickling toward the main hall for the assembly and for lunch, so they flowed along with them. "Maybe it's Quidditch related?"

"God, why do boys think everything has to be about Quidditch?" Hermione asked.

"We don't think it has to be," Ron said. "It's just our secret hope."

Draco took the lead heading into the hall and cut toward a knot of yellow-accented robes - other second years. He took the seat next to Lisa, and they all piled onto the bench with him. Lisa turned to Draco and smiled. She nodded warmly to Harry and ignored Ron and Hermione's existence.

Harry stared toward the teachers' table at the oblong black stone sitting front and center. It was the same stone that had chosen Ron's brother Fred last year. The same people had returned. Were they here to recruit another red-eyed soldier? Harry stared at the stone, transfixed, wondering. The witches' leader, Oscasia, stood beside McGonagall, her perfectly-coiffed black hair left free to tumble down her back in an orderly river of wavy curls. Golden jewelry clinked on her ears, around her neck, and on her wrists. She was pretty...and terrifying. The last time she had wandered into their school she'd taken Ron's brother, an amiable, good natured guy, and in short order, turned him into a curse-spitting, red-eyed imperial enforcer. Harry stared at the dirty stone, remembering its gritty, sticky surface. Hermione had felt the stone's character last time, same as him. Would it want one of them today?

"Settle down," Professor McGonagall commanded. She stood stiffly, obviously unhappy to be standing next to the bejeweled Oscasia again this year. "We have a visitor today, the Lady Oscasia. She is going to address you." McGonagall nodded perfunctorily and stepped aside.

Oscasia moved forward and tapped the divination stone with her wand. The students that had looked up at her with interest last year now stared up with fear and worry. It was no secret that Fred had not faired particularly well when taken by her, and no one wanted to go the same way. Harry leaned across Ron to whisper to Hermione, "Think anyone would notice if we slipped out and skipped this? I don't much want to touch that thing again."

She shook her head grimly. "Her Priestesses are at the exits."

"Of course, my kingdom for an Invisibility Cloak," Harry muttered.

"What kingdom?" Draco snorted. "Why are you so worried?"

"Instincts." Harry nodded toward Oscasia and her dirty divination stone. "That's trouble."

"Hello, and welcome back to school." Oscasia said with a wide, white-toothed smile. "We have returned to honour another student with Special Dispensation, Service to the Emperor. Come forward youngest first, and be examined."

As the first years were still off getting their supplies, that meant second years would have first feel again. Harry flowed with the line, and he was ready for the gritty stickiness of the apparently clean stone this time when he touched it. His brushed as lightly as he could, but the surface seemed to suck at his fingers, thoroughly investigating his palm before releasing it. But release him it did. Relieved to have passed through another round with Oscasia and her stone, Harry returned to his seat and watched the others file through.

Unlike last time, the stone never turned red, and Oscasia came forward again after everyone had touched her Divination stone. She frowned and shook her head sadly. "Unfortunately, we will be honoring no one from your school today. Until next time."

"You can take your honor, lady," Ron muttered under his breath.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "I like my eyes green, thank you very much."

"She took your brother, right?" Draco asked. "I take it he didn't like his honor?"

"Considering that I haven't spoken to him in nearly a year," Ron said, "it's hard to say how he feels about it. But it isn't an honor, and it isn't good, that much I'm clear on."

* * *

Sitting in her now familiar, cushioned chair across from Governor Dumbledore, Melinda waited quietly and watched the man read. She had written his series of articles, on a medical disaster that hadn't happened. No one had thought of the plague Rutilus Terminus in seven years. But Albus Dumbledore wanted it to be on people's mind. He wanted the images of the disease fresh so that when he launched his planned depopulation of the group homes, no one would question the fake plague he had procured. He wanted it predicted, expected, and he wanted every respected Healer in the empire certain that a resurgence of Rutilus Terminus had struck Europe. Melinda's articles would help assure that.

Albus set the final article aside, and smiled at Melinda. "Thank you," he said simply.

"For selling my integrity? You found my grandchildren. It's a fair trade." Melinda crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. "We have done a very thorough job crying wolf. The world has been reminded of a disease seven years dead. Are you ready to launch your plague? How much longer do you expect me to wait?"

Albus smiled faintly. "The plague is ready, and I dare say, your grandchildren will likely be retrieved long before your children are home to care for them. I hope you won't mind taking them in for a few days."

"Mind?" Melinda laughed humorlessly. She had never approved of Lily's choices, had never forgiven her for letting Harry and Isobel die. Not that they were actually dead, but they had been lost for a long time. "Lily may find I'm reluctant to hand their care back over to her when all's said and done."

Albus' faint smile faded and he nodded. "Thank you again, Melinda. Your name and impeccable credibility will make this much easier."

"Yes," Melinda agreed. "If it gets my grandchildren home safely and quickly, then it was worth it."

* * *

The Dark Arts classroom was a large space with expansive windows around its entire circumference. Riddle had disillusioned the ceiling so that the room appeared completely open as though one were standing in the sky. Despite the apparent openness, the room seemed small. Two men of great power and personality filled it from wall to wall without saying a word. Dressed in simple black robes that folded neatly about his sinewy frame, Salazar regarded his last living descendent silently. After centuries of following his line, of watching them without interfering, of waiting for a true equal, fate had provided him Tom. The handsome, powerful frame of a great wizard, he sat behind his professor's desk, with a superior smirk and a cool gleam in his eye. Decades of studying this descendant left Salazar certain only that Riddle was a hollow, dangerous, creature, without a glimmer of wisdom or a hint of compassion for anyone, possibly excluding his serpent Nagini.

Tom was the first of Salazar's line to seek him out, to ask his ancestor for the secrets of Slytherin, the knowledge he had amassed over his protracted life. But Tom wasn't an equal or a true heir. He was a power-mad pretender.

Salazar had set him a task in the hopes of teaching him, molding him, fixing him. Tom was to correct the problem he had created by drinking the Elixer of life before fathering a child. He was to create a Slytherin blood-heir. In return, Salazar agreed to share the knowledge Tom hungered for.

"Why are you here?" Tom asked. "I said I would send for you when I had your heir. Have you come to needle me about my slowness again? For an immortal, you are very impatient."

"Yes, I am," Salazar said. He crossed the room and stared down at Riddle with a look of distaste on his face. "I would like to know your plan to produce a Slytherin heir."

"I don't actually have a plan yet. These things take time," Riddle said casually. Truthfully, he knew the ritual he would use to give Salazar his heir; what he needed was a child, a worthy child, powerful, cunning, and strong. Anything less was an affront to the line of Slytherin. And it had to be a child, someone Tom could mold into his own likeness, someone he could control. "This isn't just any old spell. It must be carefully researched."

"Not good enough," Salazar said. "You were foolish enough to drink the Elixer of life without bothering to father a child, and I grow tired of waiting for you to redeem yourself. You have one final year to produce a true blood-heir, after that, I see no reason to continue our association. The Gaunt branch of the family was an embarrassment for generations. It's termination with you seems unlikely to redeem it." Salazar turned and walked away without looking back.

A fresh cool breeze slipped through the open windows and followed Salazar from the room. Its chilling touch tousled Tom's thick brown hair, pushed over his strong taunt jaw, but it did nothing to cool the fury burning beneath his handsome exterior. Salazar found the Gaunt family embarrassing? He wasn't alone in that assessment. The Gaunt branch of the family tree, his branch, had been a travesty. They had taken a sick bent toward preserving the traits of Slytherin through a pattern of inbreeding that had left the line twisted, snakelike, and almost devoid of magic. His cockeyed mother's preoccupation with Muggles saved him from a likely fate hissing in the woods with Uncle Morfin.

His mother, Merope...Tom closed his eyes and remembered her. She had loved her handsome son like she loved her kept Muggle. She lived for his visits, always excited at his prowess and power. She talked of the days when they would walk the streets of London, her son a powerful Governor. But she was an embarrassment, they all were, an embarrassment that Tom could ill afford on his journey to the Third Tier.

When he killed her, he made it quick. It was his gift to her.

She had loved him after all.

* * *

"Would you hurry up, Green?" Draco snapped. "We're going to be late." The pair raced up the tower stairs, faces flushed. Tardiness was not tolerated in Dark Arts. Riddle liked to use late students for examples when demonstrating hexes and jinxes. Nothing inspired punctuality like trying to sit through a Spell Crafting lesson with cheese leaking out of your nose.

Draco pushed through the hall door, grabbing the doorjamb to help with his high speed turn and raced the last steps to class, with Harry on his heels. He opened the door and stumbled in, gasping for air. But the room was silent and empty. Riddle wasn't even there yet. "Bollocks," Draco spat. "Class starts in thirty seconds. Where the Hell is everyone?"

"Very odd, but at least we aren't late." Harry was leaned over his knees breathing deeply, but he straightened when he caught sight of the missing walls. The room had always been light and open, a stark contrast to the subject taught inside. Riddle had enchanted the walls and ceiling so that sky greeted from every angle except the floor. The drapes danced around their invisible open windows, seeming to hang on air. "Wonder why he redecorated?"

Draco smirked. "Maybe he jumped?"

"You wish." Harry took a place in the student's circle by one of the pillows. He leaned back on his elbows and watched the clouds overhead. "You should try not landing us so many detentions this year. Riddle's a good professor for the most part. You have to admit that we learn more in here than anywhere else."

"We'll see if you still feel that way after he hexes you a few good times this year." Draco plopped down and joined Harry looking up at the sky. It was a nice day, blue skies and fluffy white clouds, excellent Quidditch weather.

The rest of their class, Millicent, Neville, Seamus, and Valerie came rushing in one after the other. Judging by their ripped robes and grumblings, Ecology's first lesson was going to be interesting. They each took a place in the circle, partners sticking together.

"I see Riddle's late," Millicent announced. She scooted closer to Neville and smiled smugly at everyone in the class. Neville just looked seasick.

Harry frowned at Millicent and Neville then leaned close to whisper to Draco. "What's got into them?"

Draco shrugged his disinterest. "He hexes with as much skill as my neighbor's cat. I'd look nervous too if I were him."

"He's not that bad," Harry said.

"No he is. If it doesn't involve Ecology, he's useless as a lump, and if you don't admit it, you're a liar."

Millicent sniffed loudly and scooted closer to Neville again. "I can't believe Professor Riddle is this late! We're missing our education."

"Who cares?" Forest said. "I'm all for missing my education."

The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood up and he carefully drew his wand. Something wasn't right. He scanned the room, looking for a shadow where something might be hiding, but the room was so open that there really wasn't anywhere to hide. He elbowed Draco, certain that something was watching them.

Without warning, a jet of bright red light shot across the room and struck Millicent, toppling her. Another bolt followed quickly freezing Neville.

Harry let his instincts guide him. First casting an Expelliarimus vaguely toward the direction the light had come from, he grabbed Draco by the arm and dove under the professor's desk. They made it to cover in time to watch the rapid stunning of Valerie and Forest. Val had at least gotten her wand out. Forest was frozen with a comical frown of puzzlement creasing his brow.

"Riddle?" Harry hissed.

"Probably." Draco threw a couple of hexes they'd learned first year at the wall across the room. Not that he thought his Jelly Legs jinx was likely to penetrate Riddle's defenses. "He's testing us."

"Think we can make the door?" Harry asked. But the red light found Draco, freezing him with his wand extended. Making a last ditch scramble for the door, Harry was frozen in motion. He felt his body turn tight as iron, and he dropped like a stone.

The soft tapping of leather-soled shoes on stone traveled to the center of the room, where an Invisibility Cloak appeared as it revealed Professor Riddle. "You walked into a strange environment, where you knew the very walls and ceiling had been concealed, yet you didn't consider what else might be hiding from your eyes. Six students disabled and not a decent defense mounted by anyone. To say I'm disappointed would be a stark understatement." One at a time, he unfroze his students and motioned for them to return to the teaching circle. Groaning and grumbling could be heard as they stretched their abused muscles. Once they were seated and quiet, Riddle pointed to Millicent and she rose. "Please explain your incompetence."

"We're students. This is a class. You aren't supposed to ambush us!" She straightened her still-disheveled robes, a furious blush on her face. "It isn't fair."

"It isn't fair?" Professor Riddle mocked. "Try that excuse with a Troll that catches you wool-gathering in the woods." He turned to Neville. "What about you? Did you surrender from the unfairness of it all?"

Neville stood nervously as Millicent sat. "No, professor, I was just surprised".

"Better than your partner, but the troll will still be having Wizard stew for dinner," Riddle said. He leveled Valerie and Forest with a disgusted sneer. "There's no excuse for your incompetence. I gave you precious moments between the incapacitation of your classmates, and you sat around with your mouths open. It was disgraceful."

Draco was up next, but he didn't meekly shuffle to his feet to accept Riddle's judgment on his performance. He stood, angry and flushed.

"You had the common sense to follow where Green led you, though dragging dead weight isn't a practice I recommend. That mistake was Green's." Riddle stared dispassionately at Draco. "Any excuse for your inadequate response?"

"You want an excuse? Lording your sneak attack over us as though you did something great. How amazing you are, disabling tiny twelve-year-olds. Are we supposed to be impressed? You're the dis..." Draco might have said more, but Riddle silenced him by replacing the hex. Riddle placed an index finger on Draco's forehead and pushed him over like a domino.

"Your turn, Green," he said.

Harry stood quietly, already criticizing himself in his head, wondering what Riddle would say, trying to think of a better way he should have handled the situation.

"Casting a weak Expelliarimus and diving under my desk wasn't the best defense strategy." Riddle looked around the room at the other students. "But it was far from the worst in the class. If you could do it again, how would you handle things differently?"

How should he have handled it? "I don't know." Harry glanced at Draco, still frozen in the unnatural rictus. "Reviving my classmates might have been a good idea? I might have made it to the door while you were re-stunning them."

Riddle's mouth turned up in the faintest hint of a smile. "Millicent, Neville, Forest, and Valerie. Gather your things and head back downstairs. You'll find Ms. Noyce in room 106. She'll be teaching your Dark Arts Lessons from now on."

The students took a moment to digest his order, but gradually they gathered their things. On her way out the door, Milicent hissed angrily under her breath, "It's not fair. He's our only third tier professor. He can't throw us out. Can he?"

Harry watch them go, feeling strangely elated and terrified. Riddle had culled his class and Harry had made the cut. Draco had too it seemed, though he was frozen and toppled on the floor. Once they were alone, Riddle's smile widened. "Don't worry about your partner. He can hear the lesson fine. Now, what hex did I use to freeze you?"

Remembering the feeling of his locked muscles, Harry mentally ran through stunning spelling from their summer reading. "I think it was Petrificus Totalis?"

"Same family, but no." Riddle smirked toward Draco. "If you guess it, I'll let you try to unfreeze your partner."

* * *

The hospital Anok in Nottingham specialized in long term care for spell damage of a psychiatric variety. From Walter Covey, who thought he should be migrating south with the Geese, to Evan Weed, who thought it was his mission to eradicate dragons, the mentally unbalanced filled the first seven floors of the hospital. But beneath those seven floors, a sublevel held another type of patient. The doors to the sublevel read simply Quarantine, and almost none of the staff ever entered there. Gossip flourished at the assistant healer station about what terrible disease was sealed away below. But only those who entered had a clue. And they never spoke of it.

All conversation at the brightly lit Assistant Healer station died when a short plump Muggle, Celia, passed by, pushing a loaded meal trolley forward to the heavy door marked Quarantine. She left her load and inserted an ornate, rusty key into the door. A resonating creak spread through the workings of the door, and it swung slowly open. She reclaimed her key, pushed her cart through the door, and padded slowly down the gently sloping ramp. Quarantine was remarkably quiet compared to the rest of the hospital. Of course, the patients here weren't crazy.

Celia stopped at each door and peered inside to see the patients and make sure they appeared well. Then she slid a change of clothes through the slot in the door and a plate of food in after that.

Some doors she usually lingered at longer than others, but tonight she lingered with no one. There was one patient, 1943-E, all the way at the back, who was her favorite. She hurried there tonight. First she slid his change of clothes through, then his tray of food. Celia then arched her feet and pressed her eyes to the spy window. Patient 1943-E was a handsome one, long black hair and fierce dark eyes. He looked like a hero from a romance novel with his flat stomach and his wide strong hands. Tonight he was sitting on the bed. He turned toward the door and his supplies. It wasn't the supplies he looked at, but the grey eyes at the door. For the first few weeks he had screamed to her for help, for information, for anything. But she hadn't spoken, couldn't speak, as the master wizard had bound her tongue. And no one had ever taught her to read or write.

He watched her as he crossed the room and took his clean clothes. Only breaking eye contact when his shirt obstructed his face, 1437-E stripped away his soiled shirt and stood bare-chested. He had never been so bold before, never voluntarily acknowledged her and exposed himself thus. Celia stared, unblinking, her breaths coming fast and shallow. Then he spat at the spy window, obstructing her view with heavy yellow phlegm. Celia jumped back as though the spit hadn't stopped at the glass, but had hit her. Her face contorted into an annoyed frown she stepped slowly back to her food trolley and finished her rounds.

Inside the room, Sirius stared at the place where the voyer's eyes had watched and contemplated his situation. He was a prisoner. There was no doubt in his mind about that. But why was he imprisoned? This wasn't an imperial prison. A wanted man like himself commanded larger punishments than a padded cell. If the empire had Sirius Black he'd be cooling his heels somewhere slightly less cushioned like Siberia or the Sahara, or even the Field.

Logic translated that he was being held by another group, organized enough to have a prison to put him in. Not many groups fit that bill, and Sirius found himself contemplating why the Rebellion, why Albus Dumbledore, had locked him away. None of the possible implications tasted well in his mouth. Hadn't they got the message about Peter? Didn't they understand what the lying rat had done? Were they punishing him for torturing Peter? Or maybe Albus wasn't the Rebel leader, gone slightly daft as Sirius had long feared, but a traitor like Peter? What if Albus was protecting the empire's secrets?

Sirius punched the padded wall grimly and wished for a wand, a file, anything to get him free. Instead of filing his way through the wall, he resigned himself to pacing and contemplating.

* * *

Lisa sat at the center of her usual flock of admirers. Amidst them, sitting to Draco's right, Harry seemed unphased by the crowd. Hermione and Ron were sitting just across from them, though Hermione seemed less than thrilled to be in close proximity to so many giggling girls.

"Dark Arts was the funniest thing I've ever seen," Lisa announced. "I knew something was going on when Hermione and Ron arrived ten minutes late and Riddle still hadn't arrived. He hit Ron first, while he was sitting down. I didn't linger to watch him topple like a tree. I ran for the door, while Hermione." - at this point Lisa started laughing so hard she couldn't continue for several seconds - "Hermione charged toward the direction the spell came from, screaming like a warrior Muggle. It was almost enough distraction to get me out the door." The girls around Lisa followed her lead and laughed heartily at the story. "Riddle kept me and Hermione, but discarded the rest."

Hermione seemed to be studiously ignoring Lisa, but was clenching her fork rather tightly.

"He split the class pairs," Draco crowed. "I told you it wasn't your coat tails that got me into his class."

"Maybe you didn't ride his coat tails," Hermione said without a trace of humor. "But I doubt Riddle kept you around for merit. He enjoys torturing you. Why would he send you away?"

Harry knew Hermione had touched the wrong raw spot with Draco when his friend's hand moved toward his wand. Harry purposefully reached across Draco to get a drumstick, and elbowed him soundly along the way. "Riddle is too annoyed with Draco's presence to keep him around for enjoyment, really." Harry shook his head warningly. Draco rolled his eyes and didn't draw his wand, but the look he shot Hermione hinted that he wasn't forgiving her insinuation.

Ron shrugged, oblivious to the byplay between Harry and Draco. "I'm glad to be shut of that class. Riddle's just scary, and Professor Noyce is much more interesting."

"Noyce is interesting?" Lisa asked. "You mean pretty."

"Hey," Harry said. He looked down the table where Milicent and Neville had been eating with a couple of other second years. Milicent had risen to leave, and she was waiting for Neville to come though it was obvious that he hadn't finished dinner. After a few moments he realized she wasn't leaving and with a terrified final swallow, he rose to follow her from the room. "What is up with those two? He's either scared of the raspberry puddling or something has to be." Harry said.

"You haven't heard?" Ron looked at least as terrified as Neville. "Milicent took him aside first day back and told him he was her boyfriend."

"And he just said okay?" Draco asked. "Completely spineless."

"What would you do? She's his class partner. He doesn't want to make her so mad on the first day that they aren't speaking. He can't say no," Ron moaned. "Girls can be bloody terrifying."

"Statistically," Hermione said. "Class pairs are ten times more likely to end up romantically involved because of close proximity. I've read some essays about it."

"Watch out, Ronald," Draco sniggered. "You're next, but this time the savage won't tell you you're her boyfriend, she'll just club you on the head and drag you back to her lair."

Harry laughed at the image before he could stop himself. Hermione's cheeks had gone pink, and the looks she and Draco were exchanging made Harry's stomach drop. They didn't just dislike each other. There was enough animosity in those glares to fuel a war. The fact that Hermione hadn't dived across the table to throttle Draco said a lot about how far she'd come controlling her impulses and her anger, but with a nervous wrench, Harry wondered what a smart and potentially vicious girl might do with stored anger that she allowed to cool.

Hermione rose smoothly and patted Ron roughly on the shoulder. "If I were going to club someone on the head, it wouldn't be Ron."

"You really shouldn't antagonize her," Ron said as soon as Hermione was out of the hall. "Girls are scary, but she's a bloody maniac."

"The savage doesn't scare me," Draco said.

"You know." Harry smiled wickedly. "If romance among class pairs is more likely, what does that mean for us?" He elbowed Draco and made a mocking kiss-me face.

Ron coughed and gasped, choking on his dinner, but Draco just smirked. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Green, but you aren't pretty enough for me."

* * *

James hadn't actually set foot in his London home in nearly two years when he returned home looking for Lily. Her smell should have lingered on the air, hinting that she could be in the next room or just upstairs. But the house was closed, empty and cold. He hadn't really thought she would have come back to London, to their home. If she could make it home, she would have found a way to send word. She wouldn't be missing.

His footsteps on the stone of the foyer did little to fill the silent space, and James settled onto the sofa without bother to remove the furniture cover. He didn't light a fire. Staring into the empty fireplace, he reviewed what he knew. The Reapers came to the Red Fan hunting Sirius. Lily made sure that James and the other Animagi would be safe, and supposedly she went home.

His Lily was in a building with the Reapers, the same creatures that set a tea party of corpses into an intricate curse that killed hundreds. Lily was missing. She could be dead. God, what if she was trapped in the fire? What if she didn't have her wand or was unconscious? James buried his face in his hands and tried to deny the facts pointing to her likely death. He wouldn't accept it.

He couldn't.

James wasn't sure how much time had passed as he must have slipped into a tired sleep, but he awoke to a crackling fire, a warm orange glow, and a patchwork blanket tucked around him. Across the room curled into an overstuffed chair and wrapped in her own blanket, a vision greeted him. Lily. The week had been hard on her too. She was thinner and her red hair was gone, all except for a skullcap of red fuzz.

James didn't ask what was done to her, where she had been. He didn't say a word. Throwing back the covers Lily had draped over him he crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. His face nuzzled into her neck, he just breathed her. He kissed her neck, her forehead, the tears flowing over her cheeks. Finally, he kissed her mouth with all the ferocious energy of terror turned to joy.

She wasn't dead.

She wasn't gone.

Thank you, God.

She kissed him back with the same energy -- passion driven by fear. Lily needed James to love her, and the wordless desperate motions of his embrace burned her skin, convincing her that she was really human, really still Lily. She needed this moment and she took it.

The logs on the fire had burned down to faintly glowing embers, and Lily lay awake in James arms. She was safe, wrapped into a cocoon of warmth, in her lovers arms. His sweet breath tickled her ear and warmed her neck. She was home.

But Lily couldn't stay in the safe cocoon. She rubbed her fingers together testing for slime. Morning approached, and she could not afford to sleep in. Lily slipped away from James, careful to fold him back into the covers. The chilly morning air was not pleasant on her skin, and she dressed quickly in her discarded robes. Her bag from Heiko's apothecary awaited in the kitchen. She extricated the precious vial of white potion and took a generous swig. She was a few hours early, but the thought of accidentally being late terrified her.

Inside the pantry, Lily selected a place for her potion carefully. After some thought she settled it behind the expensive oils that James never touched. She made her way back to the living room where the fire was now blazing brightly again. James must have missed her. He was padding around the room in his bare feet, replenishing the fire. Her tousled, handsome husband, smiled at her with a kind concerned expression, and her heart thudded painfully.

I have to tell him.

I was cursed.

I am cursed.

"What happened, Lily? Where have you been?" James asked. "I was terrified."

"I'm sorry for scaring you." Lily smiled through a new crop of tears. But she couldn't make the words come. A terrible wrenching shame seemed to have sealed her throat. She couldn't tell James what she had been transfigured into, the future that awaited one slip with Heiko's potion. She couldn't say the words Bog Golem to him. "I was hexed by a Reaper, and I was with a Healer. But I'm okay now."

James went pale as a ghost. He crossed the room and pulled Lily into his arms. He held her close, rocking her gently. He wanted her to tell him every detail of what she'd gone through, but he didn't want to hurt her or make her relive anything so obviously painful. She was alive, and that was a gift. "You have to let me protect you," James whispered. "Please, please just let me keep you safe."

For the first time in her life, Lily didn't argue with James' arcane desire to protect her from the world. "I love you."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

My beta, Jan, is love. :D


	19. Repercussions

**Chapter 18 - Repercussions**

**History of the World Volume XXII Chapter 2 The Rule of Turpin - Healing Revolution**

_The practice of herd-healing methods on the Muggle population was first proposed by Senior Healer Cecil Ross. He proposed three adjuncts to improve Muggle health. Teaching them to clean themselves was perhaps the best received of the three. It required little commitment from the Healer community to instigate and though it met with only limited success amongst the Muggle populace, was considered a positive move._

_His second proposition, cull the weak and elderly, was met with less enthusiasm by the Muggle community. Some proponents of the good health practice blame Muggle religion for the riots and subsequent unrest in the trial zone...

* * *

_

Dry desert wind curled through the many towers of the Emperor's fortress. On clear nights, the tower tops filled with witches and wizards, who lifted their golden telescopes to study the stars. Most towers held social circles, intimate groups studying the future together, but the tallest tower held only one witch. She preferred to study alone. Her thick, black hair fell in a neat plait down her back, and she wore simple comfortable cotton robes for this activity. There was no one to impress here, no need for silk or brocade or jewellery.

Gazing through her telescope, the woman anxiously chronicled the position of the planets. Mars ascending, conflict ahead. Venus in opposition, love tested. She lowered her telescope and lifted a hand to her chest, where a fluttering uneasiness had lingered for days.

She was the Emperor's seer, Spero, a name almost no one knew. Her identity was simply an extension of Turpin, like a limb or another eye. But she hadn't told Turpin of the unease in her chest, not yet. She needed to find the source of the flicker of change, before the chaos was upon them. Seers learned patterns, and Spero knew not to ignore her feelings. The last time she felt change coming this strongly, she was a girl of fifteen studying divination. That had heralded the Emperor's summons to court and her new life.

Fifteen-year-old girls fell into love easily, and Spero had loved perniciously since that beginning. After centuries of experience, she knew her feelings would never be requited. Turpin valued her, trusted her; he even coveted her body enough to bring her to bed from time to time, but he never loved her. He never would. But their endless dance of need and love and lust were a status quo Spero was quite content to perpetuate.

But the butterfly in her chest refused to be quieted.

She lifted her telescope and began searching for the moons of Saturn. Any clue of what might be coming; knowing might make all the difference.

"I didn't think the emperor allowed you out of court." Oscasia moved out of the shadows, dressed immaculately in white silk with gold baubles dripping from her fingers, ears, and dramatically-coiffed hair. "Anything interesting changing in the heavens?"

Spero let her telescope drop again, a resigned frown on her face. Few of Turpin's court would dare disturb her atop her tower. This particular priestess would linger as long as she liked. "Oscasia, to what do I owe this visit? Isn't the stone working?"

"The stone is functional." Oscasia folded her arms and sighed. "But the search is not going well. We've found them all, and within the epicentre, but only one in the hottest zone and none a high-risk according to Mabel. It is supposed to be smoother than this, easier. It reminds me of the beginning, when the stone was newly forged and I had to comb the world looking for the Reapers."

Spero tried to still the butterfly flapping madly in her chest as dull suspicion took hold. Was this the impending change? Were they going to finally find the seventh and complete the Reapers? Or were they going to lose one of the six? Was this a good butterfly of change or bad? "You must not have stacked the population sufficiently yet. Mabel's numbers only work if there are so many Muggle-borns in the hot zone that the choosing becomes easy. The smaller the population size, the more outliers there will be."

"I've stacked the population," Oscasia said coolly. "I have been doing this for some time now."

"Are you going to blame Mabel if a Reaper escapes the system? You seem to be the easiest to blame." Spero returned Oscasia's cool, angry look with a calm smile. "I like Mabel."

"You think you'll protect Mabel and throw me to the wolves?" Oscasia asked. "Be careful that you don't fall from favour. We might all end up executed if a Reaper were missed." Oscasia moved closer to Spero and actually caressed her unnaturally youthful cheek. "For now, I should head back down to the temple. I have never missed the rebirth of a Reaper. Would you like to join me?"

Spero shook her head emotionlessly, careful not to betray her disgust at the ritual Oscasia had long ago perfected. "My duty tonight is to study the stars. Which Reaper are you rebirthing tonight?"

"Fastosus; pride, and such a handsome boy this time - Cedric something or another. He had left school to start an apprenticeship. It took me weeks to locate him." Oscasia turned to walk away. "Are you sure you won't come?" She smirked when Spero shook her head. "You never could stand to listen to someone scream."

* * *

The hospital kitchen in Anuk catered to a variety of clientele, Healers and assistant Healers, patients and quarantined prisoners. Celia was solely responsible for feeding one group, and she started her days early. The main kitchen staff delegated her a fire, a pot, and the third rack of the oven.

Even in the chill winter a window was left open, allowing the room to breathe. Celia was loading her cart with the morning's breakfast, mash and a nice fruit cup, when she first saw the squirrel. He was a pretty little rat, with a slick, black nose and shiny brown eyes. He cocked his head to the side and chittered softly. A chill of pure pleasure shivered up Celia's spine, and she stole a piece of toast from one of the breakfast plates. She set the bread on the edge of the window sill, certain that the wild thing would scamper away. But he waited for his toast, and as soon as she'd stepped back he scurried forward to eat it. Little beggar's been trained for scraps at that window, Celia thought. Cute little thing.

With a happy smile, she finished loading her trolley and headed for the doors of Quarantine.

She had descended the tunnel and was walking the aisle delivering food before she spotted the squirrel again. His bushy, grey-ticked tail bouncing along behind him, he jumped from her trolley and darted down the hall.

Ceilia's mouth fell open, and if she could have spoken, she would have cried out. The poor creature had hitched a ride with her, looking for more food undoubtedly, and he had trapped himself in a windowless dungeon. She wrung her hands and stared after the lost thing.

She would have to lock the door on the way out. There was just no way around that. Maybe the squirrel would ride back out? Celia delivered another tray of breakfast and another, all the time trying to spot the poor lost squirrel. As she was finishing the first row, she turned and spotted him, peering through a room's food slot. The creature turned toward her and she could have sworn he bowed.

The squirrel jumped down and, like a charging bull, headed toward her at full speed. Before her eyes the air around the squirrel shimmered, and instead of a tiny mammal racing at her, a short man was barrelling towards her. He tackled her into the wall and with a crooked smile on his face, he whispered, "Sorry, love."

Edgar ripped the key off the mute Muggle's belt and cracked her skull against the wall firmly, knocking her out. Master key in hand, he unlocked the room he'd just had a peek into. Sirius Black, his Captain, turned to face him, paler and a bit thinner, but seemingly okay. He smiled nervously, suddenly worried that he might have miscalculated his rescue attempt. "You aren't actually nuts, are you captain? You know this is an asylum?"

A grin spread over Sirius' face and he shook his head. "Do I look crazy?"

"Honestly, no more than usual, sir," Edgar replied, returning Sirius' smile.

* * *

Since narrowing his classes down, Professor Riddle met only two groups of second-years, a group of four and a group of three. Normally Harry and Draco would pair up for practicing in other classes, but as the other two members of their class were Hermione and Lisa, they tended to split up so the girls didn't kill each other.

Riddle stood between the pairs with his arms crossed. "I expect you have mastered shielding by now. It should make practicing the different stunning jinxes more challenging. I want you to each treat this like a duel. Neither of you is assigned to attack or defend. You must do both appropriately. Only use shield charms and stunning jinxes. Questions?" Hermione raised her hand, and Riddle ignored her. "Begin!"

"Griposlanks." Harry cast quickly, exploiting Hermione's wand hand, which was pointing toward the ceiling. Her knees and elbows flew together and she tumbled to the ground.

"Point to Green," Riddle said. "In polite duels, combatants bow first, then attack. Of course, I've never been in a polite duel that mattered."

Harry soaked in Professor Riddle's praise. As unpredictable as everyone warned that the third tier wizard was, Harry loved this class, and the hint of danger it brought, best. For her part, Hermione was frustrated and more than a little angry with him, he could tell from the glare she levelled at him from the floor. That much anger generally meant he had sewn up the duel. She lost clarity with her temper. Making spells work became very difficult without clarity. Riddle paced between the two pairs commenting occasionally, but after Harry had stunned Hermione for the fifth time, Riddle stopped them. "Switch pairs," he said. "Draco take Hermione. Harry take Lisa." As Hermione switched sides, Riddle scolded her. "You can do better. Anger can be a tool. Breathe and let it cool. Cool anger is a diamond."

Harry had his hands full duelling with Lisa, making it hard to keep up with the other pair, but he thought Hermione was faring better with Draco. Riddle didn't stop to scold her again anyway.

After class, Riddle motioned for Harry to stay behind. He went behind his desk and settled into his seat. "You made her angry on purpose. You knew her, and you used her weakness to ensure your victory."

Standing there, with Riddle's unflinching blue-eyed gaze on him, Harry wasn't sure if he was being congratulated or scolded. Hearing Riddle say it like that, that he knew her and used her weakness against her, Harry felt his cheeks go pink from shame.

"Do you know why I teach first and second year Dark Arts?" Professor Riddle asked. "You don't see many third tier wizards clamouring to teach here."

"I assume you like to teach." Harry paused for a moment, thinking about the conversation he'd had with last year's second-years in the spring. "And there's a rumour that you're looking for an apprentice."

Without betraying a hint of emotion, Riddle cocked his head to the side. "I'm watching you," he said. "You can go."

* * *

Hermione was waiting for him outside, and if he couldn't quite tell whether Riddle was pleased with his actions, he knew exactly how Hermione felt. He didn't stop walking to greet her, instead continuing a steady pace toward the Great Hall and dinner. "Low blow, Harry," she snapped. "I'm of a mind to break your nose again."

"Breaking my nose is a favourite pastime of yours," Harry said, without any real fear. Hermione talking about violence wasn't dangerous. Quiet Hermione was the girl who maimed her enemies with her fists. "I shouldn't have hexed you before you were ready, okay. It was unfair and low, and I feel bad."

"You shouldn't," Hermione said bitterly. "You're playing Riddle's game. He doesn't want us to play fair. He expects that kind of behaviour, or couldn't you tell by the way he fawned over you."

"I said I'm sorry, okay." Harry stopped walking and stared at her earnestly. "I won't do it again."

"No." Hermione shook her head adamantly. "It won't pay to play honourably in that class, for either of us. I just need to know that you can see, that you care that it wasn't honourable."

"I wasn't honourable," Harry agreed. "And I do care."

"Then we're okay, and I can let your nose remain intact this time." Hermione offered him her hand, and she actually smiled. "But I'm not playing fair in there anymore either. In Riddle's class, we play as dirty as he'll allow."

Harry nodded. "Agreed." And they shook on it.

Before she let go of his hand, Hermione added, "From now on, I'm pairing with Malfoy." She walked past Harry looking entirely too pleased with herself. Harry watched her go, a shocked expression plastered across his face, but all in all it wasn't a bad thing. She and Draco could work out their frustrations with each other in the semi-controlled environment of Riddle's Dark Arts lessons, and he could hex Lisa, someone he was less intimately acquainted with. He only wondered how Draco would take the news.

* * *

The sound of the upstairs shower signalled to Lily that James had decided to break their self-imposed seclusion. For days they'd lived quietly, washing up in the first floor bathroom, careful not to properly open the house and signal their occupancy. Lily curled on the settee, listening to the tinkle of their shower, and tried to decide what to do with herself.

Part of her wanted to stay home, to seal the doors and windows against the world, and nurse her wounds. James would protect her, his beautiful delicate wife. She rubbed her fingers together and frowned. Except she was tainted, cursed. Lily made herself stop checking for a layer of slime that wasn't there, and she clenched her hand into a fist.

Hiding away from the world would be easy, but she didn't want to hide. She wanted to punish the Reapers who cursed her. She wanted to end them.

When James came downstairs, still damp from the shower, Lily was already dressed and waiting. "I'm going with you to see Albus."

"Okay." James crossed the room and slid his hand intimately across her jaw and over her red fuzz-covered head, the soft bristling of newly-grown hair tickling his fingers. He knew she could grow her hair back in a night with a charm, but she hadn't. And she hadn't yet spoken about what had actually happened to her. "Maybe we should talk about some things first."

Lily removed James' hand from her head, where he'd been stroking her affectionately, and shrugged. "I told you what happened."

He had asked to talk about things, and she had jumped to what had happened to her, what the Reapers had done to her. It reconfirmed James' worst fears, that something terrible had happened, something she had yet to share. Not arguing with her sketchy story for the last few days while she settled and healed had been intentional, but James had no intention of letting Lily keep what had happened to her from him forever. "Just tell me what happened. They hurt you."

"They hexed me," Lily said simply. "I told you."

"They hurt you." When Lily tried to walk away, James took her by the arm and pulled her back around. "We're going to destroy them so they can't hurt anyone again. I swear it."

The word hurt had a simple meaning to Lily's ear. James thought she'd been sexually assaulted, raped. She could read it in his eyes and in the clench of his jaw. Lily actually felt a laugh bubbling inside her, a hysterical laugh that she'd have a hard time containing if it got out. She made herself breathe, and the words started coming. "I think he wanted to rape me, the red-headed Reaper. He had a feel, before his girlfriend intervened. She..." Lily stumbled over the word, but she stared James in the eyes, determined to be strong and honest at last. "She cursed me. It hurt, as if I was being boiled from the inside out." James blinked at her and her sudden declaration. She held her hand out to James, palm up. "I saw my hands first, slimy and grey. My eyes turned yellow and my spine twisted until I couldn't stand."

"Lily..."

She shushed him, unwilling to pause in her confession. James took her perfectly normal hand into his and rubbed it with his thumb in soothing circles as she continued in a calm detached voice.

"I was changing into a monster, a Bog Golem. I could barely speak. And the slime. There was so much black ichor pouring off my skin and out of my mouth." Lily pulled her hand back from James' ministrations. "Even as I lost my body, the worst came from inside. I very nearly lost my mind. I..." Lily remembered the safe feeling of the water, digging and eating the slugs, the empty instinctual purpose that had almost extinguished her. "It was the most degrading, most..." She wrapped her arms around her chest squeezing herself tightly. "I can't even explain it."

James stepped forward, trying to touch Lily, trying to comfort her, but she moved back away from him farther. "I should have told you days ago. I would have except, it isn't over. Curses tend to linger, and this is a curse, not a hex. The Healer who helped me gave me a potion; he taught me how to brew it." Lily spun away from James and went to the kitchen. She pulled out the now half-empty bottle of white liquid. "It keeps me human if I drink it every day. And if I don't, I'll turn back into that Golem, a mindless monster." She held the bottle close. "Body, mind, and soul, safe by virtue of my elixir."

James took advantage of Lily backing herself into the pantry and closed the distance between them.

"Don't shrink away from me." He kissed her possessively. "You're okay. It's going to be okay."

Lily let James kiss her, but she didn't let the embrace linger. "It will be okay," she said firmly. "I've been cursed by a thing, and to properly free myself, that thing needs to die. The Reapers are hunting Sirius. I'm ready to start hunting them."

James opened his mouth to argue, to tell Lily that she had to stay home and be safe. She had to stay home and drink her potion and let him handle the Reapers. But he closed his mouth without speaking. If he told Lily to back away from this, he'd just be sending her to face it alone because he knew she wouldn't listen. "Okay, we can do this together. I'll tell you what I know about Reapers."

"Good," Lily said, determined to remain composed and focused. James hadn't turned away from her, and he hadn't told her she couldn't help. They were going to handle this together. They were going to handle the Reapers.

* * *

"I need these titles, please," Hermione said. She handed Madam Pince a list of the essays she wanted, and sighed as the older woman faded back into the unbound collection to comb for them. Hermione's eyes slid around the dusty room, over the books on the shelves, the maps on the walls, and finally to Madam Pince's desk. A flyer covered in a pretty, red script caught her eye, and Hermione lifted it out of the clutter.

_**Rutilus Terminus Fact Sheet -- Plague Strikes Group Home**_

_A French group home in Paris, located just south of the red light district, was recently quarantined by health professionals. A highly virulent plague, Rutilus Terminus, has resurfaced. It afflicts the very young at a morbidity of nearly one hundred percent in a very short period. In approximately sixty percent of those afflicted, death is the final outcome. So far the disease has shown no signs of affecting adults or even the elderly._

_Health officials assure us that stringent quarantine procedures will keep the disease from spreading, though a warning and fact sheet is being distributed through the French countryside and neighbouring countries._

_Early signs of illness:  
- Low grade fever - Red pustular rash on extremities - Disorientation_

_Signs of late stage disease:  
- High fever - Delirium - Painful pustular rash over up to 80 of the body_

_The development of lower respiratory signs is associated with a grave prognosis.  
Please contact an official Imperial Healer division if you suspect this disease may be present in any of your wards._

Hermione wondered if the plague was affecting the Muggles too. She thought of her cousins, and hoped nothing would spread to their corner of the world. Being a sick Muggle was an unpleasant state to be in. The real Healers weren't interested in helping, and the Muggle doctors were worse than leaving well enough alone in most instances.

Hermione replaced the scroll of parchment on Madam Pince's desk and resolved not to worry about a plague she couldn't control. She could see some of the unbound essays from here, massive mounds of papers. How anyone found anything back there was a complete mystery. Everything was jumbled onto the shelves in a seemingly random pattern, that the crazy old librarian alone seemed able to figure out. Finally Madam Pince returned from the stacks, an armload of rolled parchments in hand. "Three day loan on these," she told Hermione. "Are you sure you want them all?"

Hermione nodded curtly and took the papers. "Thanks."

No one else in her class quite understood why Hermione spent so many hours scrounging out unbound essays and position papers to read. Everyone else in class read the Empire's texts and the Emperor's law and they took those words as the truth. Well, Hermione wasn't buying that truth. The Rule of Turpin addressed Muggles as a different species, more like cattle than men and women. Whereas the social revolutionaries in her disintegrating, unbound essays thought differently.

The study room where she'd left Harry and Ron working on Spell Crafting was just ahead and she backed in, careful to protect her armload of documents. When she turned to drop them on the table, she received an unpleasant surprise in the form of two snobs. Draco and Lisa had dropped in and they were flanking Harry. She despised the both of them, and the fact that Harry was willing to chum up to them made her want to knock some sense into him. Couldn't he see what they were? They were the bad guys! They were Turpin's good little bigots, using their power to lord over everyone.

Hermione dropped the documents dramatically onto the table and took her seat next to Ron. "What page are we on?" she asked, though it was obvious no one was studying.

Ron turned to her, wide-eyed. "Big news on the Quidditch front. The Westies just lost two Seekers, one to retirement and one to Antarctica!"

"So?" Hermione asked.

Draco and Lisa exchanged condescending eye-rolls, and Draco answered. "That makes our friend here one of the top five Seekers in the Westies recruitment area."

"Even if by some freak of availability I was the best they could find, they won't choose me. It won't happen. I'm too young and Class I. They can't pull a Class I student for Quidditch fulltime before fifth year. National Seeker would have to be fulltime."

"True," Lisa said. "But they'll put you through your paces nonetheless next practice. If you don't want to embarrass yourself, you should probably find some time to break in your new broom."

Harry nodded. "Embarrassment in front of the Westie coaches wouldn't be pleasant."

Draco sighed disgustedly. "You're so lucky, it makes me sick. Of course you're a Seeker when there's a national Seeker shortage." He looked to Lisa. "Where's the national Beater shortage?"

Lisa laughed serenely. "If you want to play Quidditch professionally so badly, maybe there will be a shortage after fifth year, when you could actually play. That would really be lucky."

Unable to listen to them chatter about their stupid game any longer, Hermione opened her text with a loud snap. "Do you even hear yourselves? You're talking about dropping out of school to play a game. Are you mad?"

"Mad?" Ron asked hoarsely. "It's Quidditch."

* * *

Albus lingered for a moment outside his office. His assistant, Percival, smiled at him in a strained, polite manner. "Could you fetch me some Fennep root from the store cupboard on the sixth floor?" Albus asked politely. Percival stopped filing and sighed at his own long-suffering.

"Yes, sir," Percival said.

Once his assistant was safely out of harm's way, Albus rested a hand tentatively on the doorknob. Something was waiting for him inside; he opened the door prepared for anything. A pair of fine, black leather boots rested on his desk and the man wearing them lounged in his office chair. Despite his casual, relaxed posture and his careless half-smile, the man's furious black eyes warned that this wasn't a friendly visit.

"Sirius," Albus said. "How kind of you to drop by."

"Don't you mean unexpected?" Sirius extended his wand and rose from his seat. "I just spent the last God knows how many weeks imprisoned in an Asylum. Tell me it wasn't by your order."

Albus shook his head calmly. "It was by my order. It was for the best."

"Why?" Sirius was actually shaking with anger. "Didn't you say you understood that Pettigrew was the traitor, that he stole children? Did you let him go?"

"Peter Pettigrew is safely in custody, and the interrogation of Lily's list was completed in your absence." Albus met Sirius' glare easily, apparently unperturbed by the hostility that was boiling in his direction. "I had you quarantined because I know you too well to expect you to keep my secrets if you thought they would hurt a friend."

"Your secrets?" Sirius frowned darkly. Then his jaw went slack as realization hit. "You didn't tell James about his children? Senile bastard! WHY?"

"Because the reclamation of our lost children needs to be handled carefully and quietly, so that no child is left behind. If you bring the emotions of grieving parents into play, waiting becomes impossible. Because I was able to wait, all the stolen children will come home, without the empire ever knowing that their machination was subverted. We gain the upper hand, by knowing more than they think we know and acting cautiously."

Sirius wasn't shaking anymore, and his wand was still extended. "I think you should draw your wand and face me like a wizard. You're just like our loving Emperor. You hoard your knowledge, playing people's lives as though it were a game. This isn't a game."

But Albus didn't draw his wand. He gestured openly with his hands, almost inviting Sirius to hex him. "I have only ever done what I thought was right."

"And what do you think Turpin does?" Sirius barked. "He does what he thinks is right. We're living his Utopia right now. Haven't you read?" He gestured at the thick tomes, the Rule of Turpin history books that filled an entire wall. "What you think is right, is not good enough. Draw your wand, old man."

"No," Albus replied simply. "If you need to punish me, I will not stop you."

"Do you really think I'm too honourable to hex an unarmed man?" Sirius asked. "Don't you remember why you brought me back here to help Lily? I've stolen for this rebellion, tortured men at your orders, and even killed for you."

"You have given a great deal for our rebellion," Albus agreed. "Please, if you require payment from me, take your pound of flesh. I will not oppose you."

Slowly, Sirius dropped his wand arm. "I'm telling James and Lily about their children. And I'll find a way to tell the other parents if you don't."

"There is no further need to conceal anything from the parents. Their children will be home very soon. If I could find James and Lily, I would tell them myself." Albus settled into one of the chairs in front of his desk with a sigh. "Unfortunately, the brothel that James, your Dog Pack, and Lily were inhabiting was raided by the Reapers and burned. None of them have yet to report in."

"I know about the raid." Sirius laughed. "You don't know where Lily and James are? Pardon me if I don't believe you."

"It is the truth," Albus said. "I can only hope they came to no harm when the Reapers raided their temporary base. You should know that I believe that they were hunting you. You killed their compatriot, Gluto, and survived to tell the tale."

"Hunting me? Isn't everyone these days?" Sirius never let his gaze waiver from Albus, sparing the elder wizard no trust. "For the record, my dog pack made it through fine," Sirius said. "They're with me."

Albus smiled inscrutably. "And are you still with our rebellion? Or should I write to Moody that his Animagi are lost to us?"

Scowling, Sirius crossed his arms over his chest. As much as he wanted to spit in Albus' eye and walk, he couldn't. He'd committed himself to the removal of Turpin and Albus' army was the best, most organized chance at that. The removal of Albus could be handled after Turpin. "I'm not done with the Rebellion."

Dumbledore nodded seriously and pulled a scroll from his sleeve. "Perhaps you would like to see why I needed just a little more time."

Sirius accepted the parchment without breaking his scowl. Scrawled on the yellowed paper in a cramped, slanted script, Albus had given him a new list. Much shorter than Lily's list of possible traitors, this list was incredibly precious. There were families listed with children's names underneath. Sirius scanned down the list to James and Lily Potter. Two children's names were listed under them, with different dates out to the side of those names. "What is this? All these children were taken? How many?"

"Enough that retrieving them will need to be handled very carefully," Albus said. "Those dates are estimated time of arrival, when my plan will return them home. We have seeded a plague through the group homes, a false plague that doesn't really kill anyone. We are going to use this plague to recover what was stolen."

Sirius stared down at the dates, aware of the meticulous planning that must have gone into Albus' scheme. Sirius could almost understand why the man had waited, why he'd held onto the truth a few extra weeks.

"You plan to fake the children's deaths and bring them home." Sirius scanned the dates next to the names. "The first wave will be home within the month."

"And the last, by the summer," Albus finished. "I have started notifying parents of their returning children already. As soon as James and Lily can be located, I will inform them of their good fortune."

A hollow feeling settled into Sirius' stomach. What if James and Lily hadn't escaped the Reapers' raid unscathed? What if, after all this time, their children were coming home to be orphans? Good lord, when he had become their godfather, he hadn't really ever thought he'd end up with the children. "If we haven't located Lily and James by the time we've returned their children..."

"Melinda Potter has graciously offered to take them in for as long as necessary," Albus said serenely.

For a moment, Sirius' temper flared again. How dare Albus let Melinda usurp his rights as the children's Godfather? But hadn't he just been in a panic over what he would do with two children? At least James' parents had experience, a home, and weren't wanted fugitives. "They know about this plan? I suppose you informed them in lieu of James and Lily since they're still out of contact."

"In a word...basically," Albus said.

"Basically?" Sirius returned Albus' list to him, his expression still cool, forgiveness still not granted. "Someone needs to find James and Lily, now. I'll see to that."

* * *

Oscasia's home looked nothing like the temple of her youth. The temple of Bastet was built around light and gardens and birth. Bastet was supposed to be a guardian of the sun, of mothers, but Oscasia had never really believed in a power greater than her own. Religion was a tool to control the weak, a form of ignorance. When designing her home in Turpin's capital she had created something better, a functional home, rich and safe and carved deeply into the earth.

She descended the stairs today, heading for her new temple, a sanctuary to her own power and achievement. After she hit the fifth sublevel, she began to hear the screams of the preliminary event of the evening. But she didn't continue to level six to help prepare the new Reaper, not yet. She slipped into a red sitting room, the Reapers' waiting room.

There were only five demons looking back at her today, wearing a mixture of children and adults that she had found for them. Fastosus was currently disembodied, and not because an enemy had killed him. His death came at the hand of his lover, Avaritia.

Again.

Pairing the demons off had seemed natural when she first engineered them. It was meant to help bond the group together and to provide them with another distraction through carnal release. Oscasia's nostrils flared at the trouble that decision had caused her. If she had to deal with another jealousy killing between Fastosus and Avaritia, she might have to punish them personally. Maybe they were soulless demons without consciences or inhibitions, but they were her creations, her children, and she had engineered them to possess intelligence and logic. From the back of the room, Saevio, one of the few who still inhabited an adult's body, spoke for the group. "We have been waiting for several days now. Is there a problem, Lady Oscasia?"

"There is no problem. I found your brother's new form." Oscasia frowned disdainfully. "But the new choosing place is still fluctuant. Fastosus' body was hidden out in the country apprenticed to a Master Charm crafter. The apprenticeships create too many hard-to-locate possibilities. I will put an end to them, but in the meantime, try to guard your bodies more carefully, lest you end up stuck here, waiting for weeks at a time for your replacement."

The Reapers stared back at her, calculation apparent in their faces. "Of course, Lady, the next Reaper who throws away a perfectly good body will answer to me," Saevio said quietly.

Oscasia didn't question that Saveio's threat would carry weight with his fellows. She had fashioned him as the strongest, the dominant demon, and he understood exactly what would hurt each of the other Reapers most exquisitely. "Excellent. On to business; the emperor would like you to help guard a shipment of sun stones from the east. They can't be conjured without great peril, and he requires this shipment most urgently. I left the details with your brother." Terrified screams, the last words of a boy Oscasia had found only that very morning. penetrated the thick stone walls. "He should be ready soon."

* * *

It was a beautiful autumn day, perfect Quidditch weather. White, puffy clouds dotted the blue sky, allowing the sun to warm the air without blinding a flier. Ron gazed wistfully out of the library window and let his mind wander. He wondered what Quidditch camp had been like. Lisa, Harry, and Draco were out there practicing what they'd learned. Had their team missed Fred and George this summer? All his brothers, Charlie, Fred, and George, had played Quidditch. Ron wondered where his brothers were now if they were okay. You would think one of them would pick up an owl from time to time and say hello.

Hermione snapped her Rule of Turpin text closed. "Quidditch." She sighed in absolute disgust. "If you're just going to sit and sulk, you might as well go outside and watch them play."

Ron started and glanced at his neglected homework. "I wasn't even thinking about Quidditch," he lied defensively. "I was thinking about my brothers, where they are and what they're doing."

"Oh." Hermione blinked and reopened her text. It wasn't Ron who had stopped studying this time though. She stared at the page without comprehending a thing. She knew where one of his brothers was, and she had a pretty good idea what he was doing. But she hadn't told Ron, or anyone, about Fred Weasley. "Are you worried about them?"

"Yeah." Ron nodded. "It's weird not knowing where they are or when they're coming back."

Hermione stared at him, wrestling with her instincts. The piece of truth she had found would just hurt him, but it was against her nature to hold back. When had she started worrying about hurting Ron? Wasn't the truth always the right answer? The truth was the only answer. "There's something you should see." She strode to the wall with the reference books, the Rule of Turpin Tomes and selected the book she wanted. Hermione pulled her chair close to Ron, and settled the book between them. "I found this a couple of weeks ago, and it reminded me of what you and Harry saw, what Fred looked like and how he acted."

Ron stared down at the page, at the animated illustration glaring up at him. Three wizards and three witches milled together, malice glinting off them. They each had a single glowing red eye over a black flowing tattoo. "Turpin's Reapers," Ron read. These weren't the same people that he had seen in the street all those months ago, but the eye was unmistakable. "What's a Reaper?" Even as he asked the question, Ron recalled campfire stories about red-eyed demons that possessed naughty children and then destroyed their families. George and Fred told Reaper tales especially gruesomely. They always liked to watch Ron squirm under the images of fratricide or torture that they could spin.

"A really vile enforcer from what I've been able to gather." Hermione flipped the page, where illustrations of dead, deranged, and mutilated people filled the spaces around the words, saying more with their motionless horrors than a printed word could possibly express. "They don't just kill or even torture. They are evil embodied, taking pleasure in atrocities. There are six of them and their names never change, though their faces do, Saveio, Gluto, Fastosus, Invidia, Irritum, and Avaritia."

"They called Fred Gluto," Ron whispered. "He wasn't Fred anymore though. I knew it when I saw him hex that old woman. I knew. My brother's dead, isn't he?"

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know what your brother is, except maybe a Reaper."

It seemed that would be the end of it for a long moment. Ron pulled the book into his lap and started reading the columns of words describing the amazing, effective Reapers and their services to the empire. "How long have you known about this?" he asked at last. "When were you planning to tell me?"

"I wasn't even certain that this was really what you saw, and I was going to tell you," Hermione said. "But then I thought, what good will it do? He'll probably just flip out like his brother, George, and try to fix something that can't be fixed, and I'll lose my class partner." The excuse sounded self-serving and stupid to her and Hermione flinched. She was turning into one of them, a lying, scheming witch. She sank low in her seat, ashamed and ready for Ron's full anger.

Something that can't be fixed, not with all the king's horses and all the king's men. Something that can't be fixed. "If anyone can save Fred, George can," Ron said. "And maybe I can't fix it, but you should have told me." Ron's face turned reddish and he glared down at the book in his lap.

"I should have." Hermione was still waiting for him to yell. Wasn't he going to yell at her?

"There has to be more to read in this library than Turpin's take on his Reapers. I bet if we looked hard enough, we could figure out what they are and how to help Fred." Ron gazed at Hermione expectantly, and she stared back, shocked by his composure. A half smile crept over her face, and she nodded.

"I've been trying to tell you and Harry how much is here for over a year now." She tapped the rule of Turpin book that they were supposed to be reading for History of magic. "If you look past the frosting of the official histories, there are a thousand other voices, different viewpoints on the same moment. You have to read them all to know the truth."

"So you'll help me?" Ron asked seriously.

"Yeah," Hermione nodded. "I'll help you."

* * *

The carers locked the roof access early. Normally it took a few weeks after the big kids, with their late-night snog-fests, had gone back to school before the staff noticed and sealed the door. Isobel wrenched stubbornly at the handle, then with a sigh, trudged back downstairs. They had a free day from studies, and she was bored. Normally she'd seek Joey out and find some game to occupy her time, but Joey wasn't speaking to her, hadn't been since their fight. Technically Isobel started their fight, but she had no idea how to fix things. While apologizing had occurred to her, it seemed too simple a plan to really work.

Well, she didn't need a friend to distract her. There was always the tree in the backyard. Assuming the boys hadn't taken it over, she could climb it and waste the day watching London over the fence or the other children in the yard. She liked to watch people. Harry called her a voyeur, whatever that meant.

The hall outside the back exit was crowded with the usual group that liked to play outside. The back door was open, but they were standing around in little clusters talking. It wasn't raining. What was their problem? Isobel wondered. She felt eyes follow her to the doorway, where she bumped her nose soundly on thin air. A smattering of laughter trickled through the other children. "Why's the door warded?" Isobel asked, rubbing her nose.

"So we can't go out," one of the boys quipped.

"Brilliant answer," Isobel sighed.

One of their Carers, a mousy brunette named Ms. Franz, strode into the hall, a determined expression on her face. "What are you all doing? Disperse yourselves immediately. If I catch another child malingering by an exit, they'll be on kitchen duty for a week." She clapped her hands. "Go on with you."

Isobel rolled her eyes and followed the crowd that went for the stairs. Someone might at least bother to tell them why they all been grounded from outside. An explanation would make it all seem less unreasonable. Isobel stopped by her dorm and frowned. She and a smattering of her bunk mates seemed to be locked out of their bedroom too! A bold white sign on the door proclaimed simply, Do Not Enter. While she was standing there, a Healer in pristine white robes hurried out of the door, a blank expression on her face. She made an abrupt shooing gesture at the girls. "All of you stay back. Can't you read? Go downstairs immediately."

Isobel scratched at her arm and sighed again. All this oddness was making her tired. She turned to go, but the nurse latched onto her and looked at her arm with an expression of growing alarm. "Another one," she hissed. Isobel glanced down at her arm and the tiny red bumps that had appeared there this morning. She'd had worse rashes. Why was the Healer acting like that? "Everyone, show me your arms," the Healer commanded. The girls complied silently. There were two others with the same red rash, Amy a five-year-old and Erika a ten-year-old. The Healer took the three girls with rashes aside and finished shooing the other girls away. "Okay girls, this is okay," the Healer said. "You're going to be okay."

Immediately, Amy started bawling, fat tears steaming out of large grey eyes. Isobel knew exactly what she was feeling. The Healer didn't seem sincere or sure of their future well-being. She seemed really scared. Why did everyone have to lie to them all the time? Why not just tell them what was going on? Something was going on.

The Healer ushered them into the dormitory where four bunks were occupied by three boys and a girl, none of whom Isobel knew well. They were all quietly scratching at their arms. Isobel looked down and realized that she was scratching at her arm still, trying to quell the itch that was dancing there. "Are we sick?" Isobel asked.

The Healer smiled her fake smile and nodded. "You've caught a bug, but we're going to take very good care of you. Don't be scared."

Isobel glanced at Erika. who looked equally unimpressed with the Healer's sentiment. "What kind of bug?" Erika asked. "You don't lock the entire home inside because a couple of the children have chicken pox or a cold."

"Get changed and get into bed," the Healer said coolly.

Isobel opened her mouth to argue, but the tired feeling that hit her in the hall had redoubled. And she couldn't muster the energy.

Amy continued to cry.

* * *

Remus closed his eyes and curled under his cloak, trying to sleep. The grass here was soft and his campfire offered plenty of warmth, but a steady ache in his chest wouldn't let him sleep. A mark had risen there, over his heart: the green tracing of a scarab beetle, the mark of Vociferor. They had been foolish to think they could walk into the heavily warded prison and out again without immediate, intimate repercussions. He and Nyt and her captain were hunted, and would be for as long as they drew breath. It wasn't that he hadn't been hunted before, Remus thought bitterly, but the werewolf hunters at least were an evil he understood. God only knew what the wardens of Vociferor would do to punish their trespassers.

The decision to split had been Remus'. It made no sense to linger together as one target, and he'd told Nyt and William as much. The next day, he left without checking in. He just rolled out of bed, gathered his things and his gold and started walking. The burning on his chest intensified every time his mind drifted toward sleep. Perhaps this was the first level of their torture, sleep deprivation.

When Remus heard the first rustlings in the woods, he knew in his heart that he'd been found. The wardens were upon him, and he'd be damned if he'd be taken alive. Gripping his wand, he counted slowly to ten, then rolled to a kneeling position and starting slinging hexes into the night.

"Aaaaah!" With an ungraceful leap, Nyt tumbled into the clearing. For a moment he thought one of his wildly cast hexes had hit her, but no, she managed to avoid his spells and had tumbled from simple loss of balance, as he verified on close inspection. "Why did you do that?" she groused from her position on the turf. "Were you trying to kill me?"

"I was trying to protect myself from whatever was stalking me in the night," Remus said honestly. "Why are you here?"

Nyt rolled into a sitting position and shrugged. "William has his crew and Maggie, and he'll be fine as long as he keeps moving. You're on your own and marked by Vociferor, thanks to me. It didn't seem fair."

"You're here because you feel obligated to help me. You pity me and my terrible situation?" Remus shook his head. "I take full responsibility for my actions and their consequences. I absolve you of your obligation, Nyt. You'd best hurry back, before William leaves you behind."

"They sailed tonight with the tide, and I don't know where they're going," Nyt said. "And you can't just absolve me of my obligation. I buggered up your life."

Remus squatted next to her, an amused expression on his face. "Now, because you have falsely taken this obligation to protect me on and left your captain and crew behind, I'm obligated to take you on as a travelling companion?" Remus chuckled quietly and headed back to the fire. "I'm going to get some sleep. You're welcome to share the fire, and we'll figure the rest out in the morning."

When Remus curled back under his cloak, it was with his back to the fire, and the knowledge that Nyt was watching him. He closed his exhausted eyes, and this time, the twinges from the mark of Vociferor couldn't keep him from sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I don't feel good about this chapter. It feels hollow, but I don't know why. sigh Next chapter has a good bit of Quidditch and I'm not sure what else at the moment. I'm flying without my outline. O.o Yes, I strayed off the map again.


	20. Redecorating

**Chapter 19 - Redecorating**

**History of the World Volume XX Chapter 12 The Rule of Turpin - Quidditch As a Religion, Antarctica Exemptions**

_The emergence of a colony of radical Quidditch players in Antarctica who live their lives to the beat of that complex game is a recent development. Many expected Turpin to eradicate this bizarre movement (often referred to as the Quidditch Cult) before it was allowed to gain momentum. Their peculiar choice in lifestyle makes virtually no impact on the operations of the empire, and Turpin has a long history of respecting religions in all forms. Allowing these cultists their lifestyle is a tangible example of Turpin's benevolence and tolerance._

_The legal definition that allows this group to qualify as a religion is actually quite complex.

* * *

_

You almost couldn't tell that Moody's cabin had recently collapsed into a pit trap meant for a troll. The walls were in place. The roof was thatched. If you didn't look too close, you wouldn't notice the askew shutters or the warped floors. After helping him get the walls up and the roof on Moody had left the cabin's cosmetic recovery to his apprentice.

"Slave labor," George muttered under his breath. Learning to properly hang shutters couldn't be considered a survival skill. It was a waste of time, busy work to keep him from advancing. George waved his wand at the lopsided kitchen table. "Reparo Menso." The stubborn pine top listed sadly to the right without improving.

With a disgusted sigh, George went back to the potion he was brewing. Since the incident with the troll, Moody had set a short list of goals that he expected his apprentice to master before he could be released from his contract. Of course, it was hard to work on the list when Moody had him fixing furniture day and night.

Today he didn't have a supervisor as Moody had an appointment elsewhere. No one would know if he spent five minutes on the stubborn table or the whole morning. George looked down at the gently simmering potion and smiled. One of the biggest items on his to do list was mastering the Animagus transformation. That bit of transfiguration started with a simple divining potion. George dipped out a still-steaming ladle of the potion, mentally reviewing the characteristic of a properly brewed divining potion: crystal clear, consistency thin, and completely odorless. "Perfect," George said.

"I've never heard of a furniture repair potion." Moody clomped into the kitchen and pushed at the wobbly piece of furniture that his apprentice was supposed to be repairing. They were really a matched set, George thought rebelliously, wrecked man and broken table. "I thought you were going to finish fixing this room first thing today while I was gone?"

"You're back early." George crossed his arms over his chest and met Moody's wild-eyed stare calmly. There was a time when he wouldn't have been able to meet that glare with its bizarrely rotating eye. He knew the man behind the scars and the prosthetics now, and Mad Eye Moody didn't scare him anymore. "I'm multitasking - fixing the kitchen and brewing my Animagus potion."

Moody crossed the room and looked down at the dregs cooling in the cauldron. "Did you think you'd try this transformation here on your own?"

"I'm not mad," George said. "I was just practicing."

Moody dipped out a bit of the potion and sniffed it. He touched a finger to the liquid and rubbed it tentatively. "Seems you've gotten it right. I assume you'll be wanting to drink it now."

There were risks to attempting the Animagus transformation, dementia, disfigurement, catatonia, but George hardly hesitated. "Of course, the sooner the better." He fingered the charm amulet that never left his neck and wondered if Fred was still out there, if he would even feel him anymore if he got to remove the crutch that Moody had forced on him. I have to get off this mountain.

"Fine." Moody took George's precious potion and set it on the listing table. "Fix my kitchen, and you can drink that potion. And not a moment before"

* * *

One day everything was fine, and trying to figure out how to apologize to her best friend was the worst problem in Isobel's life. The next day, she and almost everyone she knew were covered in a terrible itchy rash and confined to beds. She pawed uselessly at the crowds of angry red pustules on her neck and face. The constant bone deep itch was maddening. The Healers had spelled gauze pads over her hands to keep her from scratching. Isobel knew scratching would hurt her, but she continued pawing at the itch anyway. She stared around the room at the other girls and boys with their own angry rashes and mitten-like hands.

Healers were circulating with a steaming potion, and at every bed they visited, the children stopped pawing and started sleeping. Isobel looked to her right to the bed that Amy had slept in yesterday. But the small five year old girl wasn't there. She wasn't sleeping or crying anymore. Where had she gone?

When a Healer stopped at her bed, Isobel pushed the potion away, suddenly terrified to sleep. The last time she slept, they took Amy away. Who knew what had happened to her? What if she never woke up? "I don't want to sleep," Isobel cried hoarsely. "Go away."

Two of the Healers exchanged meaningful looks. "Why don't you want to sleep, Isobel?" the Healer asked gently. The matronly woman smiled consolingly. "The itching will go away while you sleep and your body can work on getting better."

"I don't want to disappear too," Isobel sobbed, "like Amy."

The Healer pushed Isobel's limp brown hair back off her forehead. "Your fever is up," she whispered. "It makes everything seem scary. You don't need to be afraid. You'll feel much better very soon." She sat on Isobel's bed, pulled her close, and stroked her sweat soaked hair back. "My name is Wendy, and I promise to take very good care of you." This time when she offered Isobel her potion the weak, semi-delirious girl accepted it. Wendy sat quietly until her charge was still, too still for simple sleep. She would raise the alarm that another child had succumbed after all the potions had been administered. No need to panic the other children.

Wendy mentally reviewed the children she was supposed to remove today: Isobel Green, Alex Grant, and Sam Lewis. She presented a serious mournful expression to the other Healers, holding her satisfaction and happiness in her chest where it warmed her. Three more heading home today, and six tomorrow, she thought. Another ten days and fifteen children and they could reverse the plague in this home and move on, leaving the real orphans and Muggle-borns behind. Walking the rows of beds, she felt a twinge of regret that they couldn't take them all. Everyone deserved a home and a family. Children shouldn't have to be raised like cattle in herds.

* * *

The Quidditch camp supported around fifty residents, full-time Quidditch players that hadn't been called up to play for the Westies yet. Those fifty players flew everyday, practicing and scrimmaging. Then twice a week, the crowd from the schools returned for their practice, over-filling the pitches with their numbers.

Harry stepped out of the camp's transportation circle, wondering what it would be like to be among the few who stayed behind after a school practice in the almost-deserted camp, living Quidditch. It would be like the summer but quieter and more intense, Harry imagined.

The hill wasn't deserted when he appeared today. Draco and Lisa had lingered outside the arrival circle waiting for him.

"Are the Westies coaches here?" Harry asked, careful to keep his voice calm and neutral. He slung his broom over his shoulder as though he hadn't a care in the world.

Draco shrugged. "How do you think we could tell from here?"

"Be nice," Lisa commanded with a smirk. "He's nervous."

"I'm not nervous." Harry started down the hill at a determinedly steady pace. There was no way a Westie coach would be interested in a twelve-year-old Seeker, and the sooner he got that through his thick head, the sooner he could stop worrying that they would make him look like a fool. "Katherine doesn't appreciate it if I dawdle."

The speculation that the Westies' coaches would be in camp didn't turn out to be an idle one. The camp's entire coaching staff was gathered together at the entrance to the main team tents with a stranger, a short, blond-haired man in a fur-trimmed travelling cloak. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he did not look happy.

Katherine, her brown braid swinging, ducked her head out of the Fireballs' crimson tent, and she turned toward them. Harry tapped Draco on the shoulder bidding a silent farewell and headed for his team captain. "Katherine!"

She raised her hand in greeting and grinned broadly. "Harry, it's good to see you."

"You seem happy?" Harry followed her toward the pitch. "What's up?"

"Our team is about to become the best in camp thanks to you, and I'm happy about it. Sue me." Katherine's grin, if possible, broadened. "They're about to take the two or three best Seekers that they can find for the national team, except they can't take mine, because you're too young."

"Oh, you're happy that I can't be national Seeker." Harry actually smiled, feeling inordinately relieved that someone on the inside didn't think the Westies would be flying him today. "I can stop worrying that they're going to embarrass me in front of everyone."

"Oh, no." Katherine had the good grace to stop smiling. "All Seekers are supposed to report to pitch four. They'll be watching you fly. They just can't pick you. You shouldn't worry, Harry. You're a natural." She gave him a friendly shove toward the fourth pitch. "We'll be watching."

* * *

When Bart poked his head out of his studio, he intended to walk down to the kitchen and make a sandwich, but the entire second floor hall was obstructed by three piles of stuff, with more things flying from James's old bedroom by the second. Two Quaffles dropped into the closest pile that had games and sports equipment in it. A Gobstone rolled out of the jumble and belched a stream of orange goo that Bart managed to dodge. He carefully picked his way through the jumble to enter a nearly empty room. Melinda's bun was loose with small ringlets sticking to her sweaty face as she finished removing all but the largest furniture from their son's old bedroom.

"What are you doing?" Bart asked. He spun in the now bare room. "There are thirty seven rooms in this house, what do you need James' bedroom for?"

Melinda smiled at her husband nervously, fully aware that she had to tell him what she had been up to in the next few hours. Isobel was on her way. She busied herself decorating so that she didn't have to look him in the eyes while they talked. "This room is closest to our bedroom. I'm turning it into a girl's room." Melinda gestured broadly with her wand and turned the dark green walls to a cloudy pink with an antiqued lacework pattern over it. "Do you like it?" She smiled at Bart, but he just looked confused. "Then I need to store James' things, except some of the games and maybe the Quidditch supplies. Some of it will make Harry's room feel more welcoming, you know?"

Bart felt like his heart stuttered in his chest. A room for Harry and a girl's room for...Isobel, maybe? Something was very wrong with Melinda if she was making up rooms for their dead grandchildren. "What do you mean? Are you okay, love? Harry doesn't need a room, hasn't for years. Are you feeling ill?"

"I'm not mad, delirious, or ill." Melinda continued converting the room into a stereotypical little girl's room, conjuring stuffed animals and turning the furniture white. "Albus Dumbledore discovered a plot whereby the empire stole children from the Rebellion. Disappearances and deaths for years now haven't all been what they seemed. Our grandchildren aren't dead, never were, and I told Albus we'd take them in until James and Lily make it back from the East. Isobel is arriving tonight. Harry should be here in a few months."

"Melinda, that's mad. There was a fire. If there had been any doubt about what happened, James and Lily wouldn't have stopped searching for those babies. You know they wouldn't have." Bart looked around at the pretty pink bedroom, and he shook his head sadly. "Please, don't do this to yourself. Don't let that senile fool hurt you with some crazy fantasy."

Melinda headed for the hall, head held high, scared of the emotions she was about to unleash from her gentle, understanding husband. She lied to him for months, lied with her silence. She directed a stream of blue light at the pile of clothes and they began marching to one of the unused wardrobes. The second pile, made up of magazines and books, she showered with yellow light, and they took flight for the library to alphabetize themselves. "Walk with me. I don't know how much time we have," Melinda commanded. "I want the house to be settled. She's bound to be confused as it is."

Bart followed, growing more concerned for his wife by the moment and angrier at Dumbledore. What was the man playing at? He had convinced Melinda that their grandchildren were alive. "Melinda, just stop." Bart followed her, determined to show her that this was craziness.

Melinda paused before heading into the guest bedroom next to the now pink room. "I've seen a portrait, Bart. It was Harry. They changed their names from Potter to Green. Thin disguise when Harry is his father's son in so many ways." Melinda spun, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "James liked his green room, but blue is more traditional. What color should I do Harry's room in?"

Bart shook his head helplessly, still convinced that his wife had become wrapped up in a delusion, that she had to be ill or at least sorely manipulated by Dumbledore. "Most boys like blue," he said quietly. "But Harry doesn't need a room."

The doorbell rang, a tone that it hadn't sounded in many years; it was a tinkling music box song that Melinda had spelled in to signal her grandchildren. As the notes floated through the house, Bart went pale, his heart thudding in his ears. That doorbell had never rung false, not in nearly fifty years. Once it was spelled to recognize a visitor, it was all but infallible. Bart stared at Melinda, at her excited hopeful eyes and realized that maybe she wasn't confused.

"They're early," Melinda said, her tone neither angry nor excited. "Gods, I wanted the house to be settled already." She hurried down the stairs, Bart trailing behind her. At the door she stopped to pat her disheveled hair before tugging it open.

A woman in a simple black cloak stood there with a trunk in tow. "I have a delivery for Mrs. Melinda Potter."

* * *

Otto Vasco, head coach to the Western National Quidditch Club, surveyed the eight training camp Seekers with a stormy expression on his face. His blond hair waved languidly in the breeze. Without explanation, he pulled two of the older Seekers out of line and sent them into the air where one of his assistants waited. Harry wanted to watch the trial in the air, but Coach Vasco crossed back to them demanding their attention. He selected two more Seekers and sent them to another waiting tester. "You." He pointed to Harry. "Are you ten yet? I can't play anyone under ten."

"I'm twelve," Harry said quickly.

"Fine, then, you and you." He pointed to Harry then Dani. They followed him a couple of paces and he pointed to another waiting flier. "Mandy is going to watch you fly and check you visual acuity. Do what she says."

The next hours passed in a rush of tests, chasing balls, racing, diving, and generally showing off. Harry was determined to make Coach Vasco sorry that he couldn't play this twelve year old. The insinuation that he looked nine had pricked his pride. He might be a little thin, but he wasn't that scrawny or short.

The other players populated the stands, gasping and cheering at all the right moments. It was the most exhilarating feeling, diving toward the brown grass after a thimble-sized ball with the wind rushing in your ears so loud that nothing else in the world existed.

At the end of the day, Vasco pulled them together into a loose huddle. "You've all got talent, Boris has never sent us a Seeker without some natural ability at the position. But some of you have more than others." He stared at Harry, his expression unreadable. "Herriman, Green, come with me."

Vasco herded the two children he'd singled out and tried to calculate a strategy for the coming year. Of the eight Seekers flying, only two came close to meeting his standards, and he had hoped to find at least three. If they kept haemorrhaging talent to the Arctic, he was going to be playing Seeker again himself, back injury be damned. As things stood he was looking at a sixteen year old and a twelve year old. Merlin be damned, what were the Antarctic nutters smoking? Why were his best a brightest going down there to freeze their collective asses off?

His assistants that conducted the tests were waiting for him, lists in hand. "Julie, I want Green's eyes fixed before practice tomorrow. I'm thinking three degrees overshot, but we'll have some time to fine tune. Both these boys need uniforms. I'm sure you can handle it."

"Sir," one of the assistant coaches interjected. "Herriman's, fine, but Green's Class I. You can't have him full time for another four years, and then only if he consents."

"Four years? Only if he consents?" His blue eyes seemed to actually light with rage, and Otto started cursing in fluent Portuguese. With a dramatic look at the sky, he added, "The other six are a waste of time. We'll have to make do."

* * *

Hermione flipped to the next page of the essay she was reading, and glanced over at Ron who was staring blearily at the scribbled recounting of an attack the Reapers had committed on Versailles. He had taken up the essays she procured for him with determined attention, reading every night. It was strangely gratifying to watch.

She glanced back down at her reading for the night, a work that explained the strict declassifications for Muggle-type violence in the schools. According to the rules, she could hex someone daily for the entire time she was in school and never be sent to Class II, but one solid punch could end her educational career. According to the essay these rules existed to keep the overly Muggle-influenced students from rising in society where they could be troublesome. Hermione grimaced darkly, more certain than ever that she could control her temper. She fully intended to stay where she was in Class I and be troublesome for the rest of her life afterwards. Hermione gazed at the empty seat where Harry usually studied. She really wanted to talk about the essay, the bigotry and unfairness of it, but Ron wasn't the best philosophical sounding board. Now Harry, when he wasn't distracted, had an ear for philosophy, but lately it was all about Quidditch with him. He and his Quidditch friends had been at practice all day. And they'd want nothing more than to talk about their games while cramming all their homework into Sunday.

If she wanted someone to discuss things with, she really needed to expand her social circle, but the prospect terrified her. So Hermione turned back to her essay and continued reading.

Ron looked up, his eyes haunted. "I can't read anymore today." He shuffled the loose papers back together and set them beside Hermione. Want to go get some air? I heard they reopened the tunnel to London, and I have loads of pocket money." Ron felt nervous now that he'd asked. He and Hermione did things together, like study sessions and meals. They didn't play games and they didn't go get butterbeers.

"Sure," Hermione said. She set her own essay aside. "A break would do us both some good. Did you discover anything interesting tonight?"

"Aside from a list of ways to torture a herd of billy goats, not much. You?" Ron asked.

"Nothing particularly new," Hermione said. "Why would anyone torture a herd of billy goats?"

"From the sound of things, the Reapers tortured them because they were there, for fun." Ron frowned darkly. "That's all they do, torture and kill and torture and kill. And they never go away no matter how many times they're killed. That witch Oscasia just takes people like my brother and somehow brings them back."

"The somehow is what we're looking for," Hermione said firmly. "If we figure out how she makes them, we can figure out how to unmake them, right?"

Ron reached the suit of armour that blocked the entrance to the tunnel to London. He pulled the arm and nodded to Hermione, accepting her positive interpretation of the situation for the moment. "Exactly right."

* * *

While his young apprentice circled the kitchen a final time, looking for any glaring imperfections, Moody hunkered down in a kitchen chair, valuable potion at his hand. The ingredients George had been gathering for it would take another fortnight to reassemble if the potion were to accidentally topple today. But Moody couldn't quite bring himself to sabotage George's incessant press for freedom. Though he promised Dumbledore that he would keep the child safe for as long as possible. The entire promise was flawed. George was not a child. He was sixteen. That he hadn't had to take the responsibilities of a man before was a fluke, a blessing, but Moody couldn't stomach keeping a man captive to a contract after he had demonstrated that he could survive as well as most.

"Sufficient?" George joined Moody at the table, eager eyes shining.

"Before you drink the potion, I caution you, hold on to your purpose and find the animal quickly. When I was younger and whole, I drank that potion, and I dwelled in my own mind for what felt like an eternity. My father pulled me back before I slipped into madness. I'll try to do the same for you if necessary."

George bit back the urge to retort, are you sure he got you in time? "I know the risks. You're the one who made it required. Kindly let me master it."

"First, take off your charm amulet and hand it over," Moody commanded. He couldn't let George enter the trance with a foreign magic inhibiting his sensitivity, but would the crush of his brother's pain make the vision impossible to interpret? Mood dropped the amulet into his breast pocket. "Now that you have your brother screaming in your head again, are you sure you're up to this?"

After a short pause, George took the potion from in front of Moody and nodded numbly. "Of course I'm up for it. There's nothing screaming anywhere," he whispered. "Fred's gone."

* * *

Voices floated into the Potter's redesigned bedroom, but Bartholomew didn't try to listen for anything they said. He sat in a white chair by the large pink bed that held the most improbable thing in the world, his granddaughter. A small child, almost nine, she hadn't yet opened her eyes, but he knew their colour. His granddaughter had brown eyes, big brown eyes. Bart watched her small chest rise and fall mesmerized by the reality of having her back.

The door opened and shut quietly admitting Melinda. He expected her to apologize, to explain or argue at him, but she took one of the wooden chairs to Isobel's bedside and sat quietly. Bartholomew let the silence between them stretch out, unwilling to risk awakening the sleeping child.

Melinda smoothed the covers on the bed and brushed at Isobel's forehead where the ghost of a rash lingered. "They left a cream for the rash. They said that Isobel will sleep through the night and should be awake by tomorrow afternoon."

"Is she ill, then?" Bart lifted Isobel's limp wrist where the rash was most prominent, worry creasing his brow. He vaguely remembered the plagues Melinda had been writing about. He remembered enough to be scared. "What happened? How were you involved in this?"

"She isn't really sick, not with anything dangerous. It's a manufactured illness. Albus designed it himself. We faked her death and dozens like her already. I was just the herald. I made sure the Healers were thinking about the right diseases at the right time."

"You were the herald, and I was the fool." Gently, he rubbed his granddaughter's hand, warming her cool fingers. "Why didn't you tell me? The moment you knew, you should have told me." Bart could practically hear the gears turning in Melinda's brain as she geared up to explain her deception.

"I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't be able to make the hard choice-to wait, to do this smart. It's the hardest thing in the world to wait when you know they're out there. I spared you the agony of waiting, and kept you from mucking up a complicated plan." She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for the inevitable explosion of anger from Bart, completely prepared to argue all night if he needed it.

"Why make this so complicated? We could have just gone and got her, and had her and Harry home all this time. You can't justify waiting to me."

Melinda smiled sadly. "And you've just confirmed to me that I couldn't tell you. You have never been logical or deliberate about anything in your life. This plan is smart and right. We don't want the empire to know that we know what they stole or that we've recovered the children. This way they'll be safe."

Anger had never been an emotion that Bart had to struggle with. Like water on an impervious charm, anger arrived, beaded into droplets, and slipped away. Today was no exception. Bart wasn't angry at Melinda, but he was as weary and as sad as he had ever been. The world was upside down and he had no partner left in it to trust. "Is there any point asking you where our grandson is or when he is scheduled to be home? You mentioned a few months."

"I don't know where Harry is," Melinda lied, certain that Bart would take matters into his own hands if she told him anything. "But he should be with us in the spring, summer at the latest."

"Maybe before his next birthday? This plan started in May. You started writing those papers and stopped talking to me about what was really going on. Our grandchildren spent their birthdays alone for another year because of you and Dumbledore's plan. I guess I just wonder, are we planning to miss another birthday?"

"That's not fair. You don't understand." Melinda had made her arguments to the bedspread, looking at the arcing stitch work, avoiding her husband's angry gaze. When she looked up, her arguments failed her, as her husband's anger had failed him. A steady stream of tears coursed rivers in the creases of his face, scolding her more soundly than any amount of shouting ever could.

"I understand that we have a little girl to take care of until her parents come to get her. Do you understand? Do you understand that I can't look at you right now?" Bart scooted his chair closer. "I'd like to sit with my granddaughter tonight in peace. She's a miracle, and I can't find my joy in that with you here."

* * *

Harry wasn't sure exactly what was happening. He was Class I, and they couldn't pull him for Quidditch fulltime. It was a rule. Yet the coaches had taken him off to the Westies training camp to get his eyes fixed. Harry fingered his glasses nervously, reluctant to have anyone do anything to his eyes. The Medi-Wizard smiled at him with a broad toothy expression and slid his glasses off his face.

"Don't you worry," the man said. He gave Harry a clear stone that he told him to hold up. The stone shone a bright yellow. "Now see that tells me you're very nearsighted. Shut your eyes for me. This won't hurt a bit."

Harry shut his eyes, a grimace on his face. Almost immediately there was pressure on his eyeballs, like someone was massaging his face. This was what it felt like to have one's eyes fixed? What if this fellow wasn't competent? He wasn't a full healer. What if he blinded Harry or made his eyes worse?

As abruptly as it began, the pressure was gone. When Harry opened his eyes, it was like someone had polished the world. The trees that had been reasonably visible with his glasses and abstract green blurs without them, looked crisp and detailed like Harry had never seen them. The leaves weren't clumps of color, they were individual entities flowing with the breeze. Harry glanced at the Medi-Wizard, ready to thank him profusely, but the world closer wasn't so clear. The man's face was quite blurry. The Medi-Wizard handed Harry his glasses back. "You'll need those off the pitch. I have adjusted them to your new prescription. Seekers do much better if they're fairly farsighted. You still need to be able to see well enough to grab the Snitch when it gets to arm's length, but spotting the Snitch first is three fourths of the battle. The once yellow crystal that Harry still held, now glowed a mellow mint-green.

"Fixing my eyes meant making me farsighted instead of nearsighted? Why not fix them perfectly and let me deal with finding the Snitch." Harry had been nervous to have the procedure, but now that it was done, he wished they'd consulted him on how he wanted to see. He had been wearing glasses his whole life. It might have been fun to try life without them for a while.

"Coach knows what works," the Medi-wizard said. "You should head on out to meet the team."

"Right, but I have to go back to school," Harry said nervously. "Didn't anyone tell them, I'm Class I?"

"Are you now?" the Medi-Wizard said. "I doubt Coach will let that stop him now that he's got you out here. Possession is nine tenths of the law."

* * *

_Don't get distracted._

_Don't forget where you are or what you're looking for._

_Focus._

_Pitch blackness surrounded George, pulling at him, a suffocating void into which even air couldn't reach. He gasped for breath that wouldn't come. Panic tightened in his chest and his heart stuttered forward faster._

_"Lumos."_

_Precious blue light cut through the dark, and George was able to breathe again. Fred smiled at him, glowing wand in hand. "I thought you weren't afraid of the dark anymore?"_

_"I'm not." George couldn't find his wand to cast another Lumos. "It was more than the dark in here. There wasn't any air." _

_"No air?" Fred looked around nervously. He pulled George to his feet, and enveloped him in an abrupt desperate hug. "I've missed you."_

_"Missed me? You see me everyday." George paused. He was going to jokingly tell Fred what he had for breakfast all week, but he couldn't remember yesterday or the day before. The past was a vague cloud. "Something's wrong with my memory."_

_After a long pause, Fred nodded. "Don't worry. You'll remember. It's this place. We should just get you out of here while the getting is good. Follow me."_

_George followed his brother, happy to let him cut a path through the dark tunnel. When he was shaken or lost, Fred was always there to steady him and on the rare occasion that something rattled Fred, George was there to reciprocate._

_They didn't need the wand light for long. Once they got moving, the darkness melted away first as a grey dimness that gradually turned into bright sunlight. Fred paused at the tunnel opening, so George ducked past him, squinting against the light. The world smelled fresh and wet as though they'd just missed a rainstorm. The tunnel had opened into an idyllic clearing carpeted in grass and bounded by an old orchard fence. The broken and twisted fruit trees declared spring, budding resolutely in their neglected overgrown rows. "Where are we?" George asked. "Why can't I remember how we got here?"_

_"No idea," Fred said. "I thought maybe you came looking for me."_

_"Really?" George felt a buzz of disquiet at Fred's uncertainty. "Did you see that?" He spotted movement near the weatherworn fence and circled to get a better look, wishing he knew where his wand was. Nothing threatening greeted him. A pair of animals sat in the shade, peacefully cleaning a pile of salmon. A large fluffy skunk eviscerated the catch a fish at a time while a racoon used its dextrous hands to clean them in a nearby brook. "Fred, have you ever seen anything like this. They're working together." He laughed and turned, but Fred hadn't followed him out of the tunnel. He stood at the mouth, unmoving. "Fred?"_

_"Don't come back here." Though he was only a step from being in the clearing, the light didn't touch Fred's face. The shadows clung to him with greedy tentacles. The darkness licked at him and held him back. George rushed forward, groping for his still-missing wand. "STOP IT." Fred screamed. "You can't help, and I can't sleep with you here! It's easier to sleep." Fred was almost invisible now, a shade in the shadows. "Run away, George. Please just run away."_

_George continued forward heedless of his brother's request. He groped in the now mundane shadows, grasping for someone who wasn't there anymore. George beat at the walls, simple dirty stone, and he screamed for his brother._

_After hours of fruitless pounding, George stumbled out of the tunnel and headed for the brook, his bruised hands throbbing. He tried to piece together what might be happening. At the water's edge, George dropped to his knees and gratefully let the cool water wash over his hands. Why couldn't he remember how he'd first become separated from his brother? Where was Fred now?_

_A soft cooing sound reached him, and George turned. The skunk and racoon were still together, but they weren't working. The pile of fish lay half cleaned and forgotten. The racoon sprawled on the ground, unmoving, while the skunk hovered over him clicking his tongue and stroking his companion._

_George walked forward, unable to look away from the pair. Whatever this place was, he and his brother were being mirrored in the two animals. What kind of game was this? With no fear that the skunk would bite or spray, George stroked its soft head and down its back. The skunk squealed pitifully and leaned into his touch._

_Crying mournfully, the skunk let him lift it away from its fallen companion._

_George held the wild animal._

_George held himself._

_Finally, he remembered where he was._

_He remembered why he was there.

* * *

__  
_"Aren't you a handsome fellow?"

George opened his eyes, Moody's gravely voice reassuring him that he was no longer trapped in his own mind. He tried to reply, but a high pitched grunt came out.

"Don't try to speak," Moody said with a chortle. "I've not yet met a skunk that could talk. Interesting form I have to say. Definite potential."

George rolled to his feet, feeling strange and small, his whole body foreign. If he thought about his limbs and the flowing tail behind him he could barely stand, but if he took his mind off it and let his body keep itself upright he could almost walk. George wanted to ask Moody what next.

"I'll give you tonight to try and turn yourself back. When you can slide back and forth easily, our work here is finished. Try not to scent the cabin." Moody yawned and rose. He blew out the lantern and took a limping step toward his bedroom. George hissed loudly and managed an off balance trot across the room, blocking the doorway. With a lunge he knocked the amulet in Moody's pocket with his fuzzy black and white nose.

The divination potion had done more than show George the animal form he could manifest. He saw his brother again, touched him, and spoke to him. The buzz of disquiet and pain from before Moody brought the amulet had returned. Could he trust the vision's assurance that separation from his brother made Fred more comfortable? The hum of pain ringing in his ears lent credence to the visions request. Fred had asked his brother to let him sleep, and George hoped the amulet was enough to give him the peace he asked for.

Moody pulled the amulet out and looked down at George speculatively. "A clear head can only help." He slid the chain around his apprentice's neck, the links magically shortening to a reasonable fit. "I expect you to be human again by the morning."


	21. Comfortable

** Chapter 20 – Comfortable **

**History of the World Volume IV Chapter 67 The Rule of Turpin – The Turpin Family**

_The Emperor Turpin never produced an heir. Though he has had many concubines over the years, having partaken of the Elixer of Life he is unable to father a child. He has at times bestowed his name on his most trusted advisors and valuable acolytes. _

_The most recent addition to the Turpin family is a clan of Arithmatists. Originally their family name was Lestrange. Their arrangement with the emperor allows for automatic inclusion of any in their direct line to the third tier. The long-term effect of this situation has been the slow extinction of the family. Recently, measures were taken by their matriarch, Mabel, to remedy this situation.. /I . _

* * *

_ Someone had painted the dorm room pink_, Isobel thought dreamily. She blinked and cuddled down into the soft bed enjoying the warm cocoon of the silky covers and thick downy comforter. With a start, her eyes opened wider and her mouth went dry. This bed wasn't like any she'd slept in before. It was too big, too soft, too silky.

She gazed out from under the covers nervously and realized that they hadn't painted the dorm pink. This strange pink room did not exist in the group home. Isobel would stake her life on it. She had explored every single inch of that drab place. There weren't any pink, red, blue, or green rooms there, only grey in various states of peeling disrepair.

The pink reminded her of Dolores Umbridge, and Isobel began to wonder if she had somehow accidentally Apparated herself to the woman's house? Maybe she'd give the unpleasant old girl a nice case of the red-itchies, Isobel thought with an ungenerous smirk.

She hadn't noticed at first, but there was a soft, steady grumbling sound. Isobel pulled the covers over her head and listened nervously. Someone was snoring. What if she really had accidentally Apparated and she really was at Dolores Umbridge's house and that was her snoring. The bed was certainly big enough to be hiding another occupant.

_ I'm not a baby. _

_I'm not a baby. _

Isobel pushed the covers back and sat up, prepared to come face to face with the squat, mean woman who had told her how little she was worth. But it wasn't Umbridge snoring. It wasn't even anyone in bed with her. An old man was slouched in a chair at the bedside. He wore a bright purple vest and his fingers were stained all different colours. Isobel stared at the snoring man, no longer frightened. White-haired men in purple vests weren't scary, but this one was a mystery.

Reaching out a hand to shake him awake, Isobel noticed her almost rash-free hands and realized that the horrible itch had gone. He had to be a Healer, Isobel decided then. They must have had to send some of the kids for better Healers, and she was lucky and got one that cured her. If he was a Healer, then the pink room had to be some sort of hospital room.

Deciding to let her saviour sleep, she slipped out of bed quiet as a mouse and sank soundlessly up to her ankles in the softest carpet she'd ever encountered. This had to be some kind of Class I hospital with rooms designed just for children. There were stuffed animals on every surface, interesting looking books on the white shelves, and chests that had to hold other treasures. Isobel crossed the room and looked out the window into a large ornamental garden. The trees' leaves had gone orange, red, and brown, and the grass was mostly dead, but it still looked inviting to a girl who hadn't stepped outside in what felt like forever.

Healers didn't usually let a girl who was just recovering from a serious illness wander around outside, but Isobel wasn't of a mind to let anyone tell her no. She crossed the room again, this time heading for the exit.

With her hand on the doorknob, Isobel's stomach sank. The harmless Healer had stopped snoring. She turned back, mildly dejected that her attempt to explore was being interrupted. His eyes met hers over a pair of gold-rimmed bifocals and he smiled at her more warmly than any nurse or teacher or Healer ever had. Isobel crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the door. "Hey."

"Hi Isobel, good morning." He took out his wand and with an efficient swish set her rumpled bed covers to making themselves. "My name is Bart, but I'd like it if you called me Grandpa."

"Grandpa?" Isobel made a confused face. "I can't call a Healer Grandpa."

"Of course not, but I'm not a Healer. I'm a painter... and a Grandpa."

"You're weird," Isobel declared.

"I am," Bart agreed. "Would you like to accompany me downstairs to get some breakfast. That muffled banging you can just hear through the door, that's Grandma trying to boil water."

Isobel let the oddly non-threatening man usher her through the door and down the stairs toward the banging noises. "If you aren't a Healer and this isn't a hospital, then why am I here?"

"I think that's a story to tell after breakfast, wouldn't you say? I'm starving."

Isobel rubbed her stomach that was suddenly rumbling at the thought of food. "I guess."

* * *

Settled into one of the second years' study rooms, Hermione looked over the schedule Harry had written out again and shook her head critically. "There is no human way for you to survive this. You'll flunk out in a term. This coach wants you to practice Quidditch three nights a week and Saturday and Sunday all day. When are you supposed to study?"

Burying his head under his arms Harry made a noncommittal sigh.

"He can do it," Ron said. He pointed to Wednesday. "He just has to get all his studying done on Wednesdays and Sunday nights. Simple. I can't believe he pulled you for real Quidditch. You're twelve!"

"It's ridiculous," Hermione snapped. "There are reasons he isn't allowed to pull Class I students for Quidditch. A Class I education is so much more valuable, more important than a game. The stupid coach thinks he can flunk you out and get you full time that way, but he can only do that if you let him."

"And what exactly are you suggesting I do?" Harry's muffled voice asked from behind his arms. "I can't quit Quidditch. I love it. But there is no way I can keep up with my classes and practice as much as Coach Otto has scheduled."

"You can do it." Ron glared at Hermione. "Stop with all the negativity. This is a big deal. He can do both. It can be done."

Hermione rolled up the bloated schedule and replaced it on the table. "I don't think so. Sometimes, you have to choose what's more important to you." She took a deep breath and opened her Dark Arts textbook. "You should study while you have time. If you're really going to try to do both, you can't afford to bury your head in the sand and moan."

"Finally, a sensible comment." Ron opened Harry's book and prodded his friend into a normal sitting position. "You haven't a moment to waste. Get reading."

* * *

After three stacks of pancakes Isobel pushed her plate back. It had been days and days since she'd had an appetite or could remember eating, but now she was too full to move. Taking a moment of satiated contentment, she stared across the table at her benefactors. The couple was a bit odd from what she could tell from watching them. Her instinctive trust for Bart hadn't yet been shaken. His wife Melinda on the other hand was a lot stiffer and far more scary, but she made good pancakes.

"Are you sure you've had all you want?" Bart asked. "There are more where that came from. You're too skinny."

"Nah, I'd rather talk about who you guys are, and why I'm here. Did you take in any other sick kids or what?" Melinda and Bart exchanged a look and Isobel frowned. They had been shooting each other lots of looks. "I'm nine, not a baby."

"Of course you aren't a baby," Melinda said. "And we didn't take in any other children, just you."

"You aren't trying to adopt me, are you? I have a brother, and we aren't going to get adopted unless it's together. You might as well take me back now unless you want a twelve year old boy, too." Isobel put her napkin on her plate and jumped down off her chair. "Thanks for taking care of me and all. The pancakes were great."

"We aren't adopting you," Melinda said with authority. "You didn't belong in that home. You have living family. I'm your grandmother. Bart here is your grandfather. And we will be taking in your brother as well."

Isobel stared at the two of them as though they had grown another set of heads. The both of them were smiling at her, but she couldn't make herself smile. "How can you be my grandparents? Where have you been?"

Bart's smile turned sad, and he dropped to a knee. "We thought the two of you were dead, as I assume you've thought us. But now that we've found you, we're going to take very good care of you and reunite you with your parents."

It's a cliché in orphanages, the dream of finding wealthy, friendly family that would make you pancakes and love you. Faced with the dream, Isobel was having a hard time wrapping her head around it. Why would these people lie to her though? What if she was having a really good dream? Maybe she died of the rash disease and this was heaven?

Bart opened his arms, obviously offering a hug. Isobel stared back at him, but moved forward a slow step at a time. When his arms closed around her, enveloping her in a spicy smell, Isobel buried her head against his soft, warm shoulder. She wanted to believe them. She wanted to be their granddaughter. "When can we get Harry?"

"Very soon," Bart said. He cast a glance over his shoulder to Melinda, a silent challenge about her decision to wait. "Very, very soon."

* * *

The transportation circle was configured for the Quidditch training camp, but the instructor who had come down to activate it was long gone. Harry had refused to enter it, and Professor Tudor had better things to do than stare at an indecisive student. It was his first night of real Quidditch practice and he was missing it. What was wrong with him?

Harry heard someone coming down the stairs but didn't move from his position staring at the circle, broom over his shoulder. Lisa, pristinely coiffed and smirking sharply, stopped on the last step and cocked her head to the side quizzically.

"Green, what are you doing here?" Lisa asked. "Aren't you supposed to be practicing Quidditch?"

"Yeah," Harry said. Except Hermione was right. Sometimes you couldn't do everything. Sometimes you had to make a choice about what was more important. And as much fun as Quidditch was, and as great as it was to fly, Harry didn't want to spend his whole life flying. There were more things in the world, things he hadn't even fathomed yet. He wasn't going to flunk out for Quidditch.

"I knew it." Lisa stepped down and out onto the circle. "I recognized you on day one, quietly trying to get along with everyone, working hard to prove that you deserve to be here. Even with the class's number one, you weren't satisfied. You want to claw your way out of that dirty group home, put on a gold armband, and drink the elixir of life." Lisa crossed her arms over her chest, her sharp, grey eyes seeming far more mature than twelve-year-old's should. "I grew up amongst those of the third tier. And most of the new arrivals are the hungry ones, the ones that had to fight to get there."

"I can't tell if you're complimenting me or mocking me. I'm not power-hungry. Not being ready to narrow my future career options to professional Quidditch player at the age of twelve isn't that strange."

"Yes it is. Haven't you seen your little friend, Ron? Most of the boys and quite a few of the girls would gladly let the Quidditch program flunk them out."

Lisa grinned, never an overly pleasant expression on her – Harry got the impression that she was the hungry one when she smiled like that. Everyone thought she was lucky to have grown up on the third tier, guaranteed a place there from birth, but Harry wondered what it had been like. He wondered if Lisa thought she was lucky. "Fine, I'm weird. I'll see you in class tomorrow."

"See you, Harry." Lisa waved delicately and spun away.

* * *

James pulled a thick leather-bound book from the shelves of his personal library. Embossed silver letters spelled out, _Universallexikon_. He flipped through its blank pages familiarly. It was a very smart book, one that had helped him through school. James turned to the first page, and wrote in a neat scrawl, _Source: National Library in London, Topic: Bog Golem Curse_. He closed the book and waited a few moments while the cover warmed under his hands. When he opened the book this time, the pages were crammed full of writing and pictures on the topic he had requested. James flipped through, looking at the pictures first. The animated sketches of the cursed form, an inhuman frog-thing, left him nauseated and terrified. The words accompanying the pictures did little to assuage his fears.

This wasn't a curse like lycanthropy. This was a permanent change, an end of self that never went back. Just thinking about Lily trapped as a monster in a bog, forever lost to him, made James so angry that he wanted to hit something. He had never wanted to destroy anything the way he wanted to end the Reapers. More than an outlet of retribution, their deaths could permanently end their curse on his wife.

James turned the book back to the first page and removed the words he had written there. He thought for several moments about where he wanted to pillage his information. Some libraries were blocked from smart books like his. The public libraries were unlikely to hold the information he most wanted though. Finally, he scrawled _Source: Private Library Malfoy Manor, Topic: Turpin's Reapers. _

This time the book filled with page upon page of red-eyed demons. James flipped through this material slower. While he wasn't completely disinterested in the litany of crimes that the Reapers had committed against man and beast, he was looking for more important information. What was a Reaper? How were they made? How could they be destroyed? When the Malfoy library came up dry on useful Reaper information, James tried others, Greyback, Black. He even tried to gain access to the Turpins' library, knowing that theirs was unlikely to allow his book to steal a single line of text.

When he heard the front door open and shut, James closed the book and headed toward the entry hall. The enchanted door should only allow access to well meaning friends, but Lily was still upstairs asleep. James held his wand at the ready, just in case. A figure in a flowing, face-obscuring hood and cloak stood ominously in the dim entry hall. "Identify yourself," James barked, ready to cast at any aggressive motion from the uninvited guest.

The figure lifted his hands, showing them to be empty. He pushed his hood back and smirked. "I guess it's a good thing I stopped here before heading back East looking for you again." Sirius waited for James to drop his wand as recognition hit. "Dumbledore doesn't know where you are. It isn't like you to linger on the missing list after an attack. Unless...Is Lily with you? You both made it out okay."

"We both escaped with our lives," James said quietly. "We're just taking a moment to get our bearings before reporting in. You know?"

"Believe me, I know." Sirius crossed the room and hugged James, thumping him on the back, his undeniable relief at finding James and Lily alive overshadowed by the news he had to deliver. "I was worried about you. Now, I need a sofa and a fire and something wet, preferably Firewhiskey."

"I can provide those," James replied. He led Sirius back to the sitting room and pulled out a decanter of Firewhiskey. "It isn't safe for you to be wandering about in broad daylight in London. The sheriffs are looking for you, and now the Reapers have marked you for hunting as well. They were searching for you when they raided the Red Fan."

"I took precautions." Sirius tossed back the sifter of burning amber liquid. "And I'm aware of the many people hunting me. But we have a lot to discuss and I don't know where to start. Is Lily here? She should be here. But maybe this would be easier between us and you can tell Lily." Though he had specifically requested a sofa, Sirius started pacing nervously instead of sitting. He had to tell James and Lily about their children. It was red-letter news, life altering news. Their children were alive! And they missed almost a decade of those children's lives while they were raised in a group home. The good by far outweighed the bad, but Sirius wasn't sure the appropriate way to break it. Just say it? Would James and Lily even believe him?

"Hey Sirius." Lily padded into the room barefoot and took a seat on the sofa, hugging a cushion to her as though she was chilled. "When did you get here? How did the rest of the questioning go? Apologies for abandoning you mid-list. James wouldn't let me leave, and I didn't fight him very hard."

Sirius stopped pacing. "Lily, unfortunately I didn't personally finish the list. I got sidetracked on Pettigrew."

James took a seat next to Lily and wrapped an arm around her, sharing his warmth. "Pettigrew? Not Peter? Why did you get sidetracked with him? Weren't you looking for traitors?" Sirius nodded. "And didn't you have something to tell Lily and me?"

James had no idea what her list had been about, but Lily's heart started thudding painfully at Sirius's quiet, uncertain look. Sirius was looking for a traitor who helped Oscasia steal children. Was Pettigrew a traitor then? Had Oscasia found her mole to start stealing children in one of James's old friends?

Sirius became very still and he smiled. "Peter was and is a traitor. He has been taking money from a witch named Oscasia. In return he fed her information about the children in our camps. He helped her steal them as quietly as possible. He's in custody now and has been thoroughly questioned." Sirius caught James eye and held it for this next part. "Of the children that we know Peter sold, your children, Harry and Isobel were two. We think they were among his first."

"Peter sold…" Disbelief, grief, and anger flashed across James face in rapid succession. "You're telling me that Peter killed my children? This witch Oscasia started that fire because Peter told her there would be children there?"

"No, no one killed your children. They were kidnapped." Sirius sank into the chair across the room and stared sadly back at his closest friend in the world. "Peter helped her, and this witch took your children so perfectly and efficiently that you never even looked for them. They're alive, James, both of them, alive and well."

When James made to rise, his face flushed with disbelieving anger, Lily grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back. "It's what she does, James. I should have seen it, should have suspected when we first started studying her. But I never even considered." Lily wrapped her hand around the charms on her neck and thought of all the dreams of her children, children that weren't spirits. She closed her eyes and remembered the feeling of her son holding her as she fought to stay awake and alive as the bog golem tried to drown her mind. Her son was alive, and she could hold him again, really hold him.

James stared at Lily, his mind spinning. Did she believe Sirius then? Could he be right? God, how could he be right? Peter sold their children. When Lily opened her eyes, she didn't look scared or breakable like she had just the night before. Her eyes were bright, calm, and certain. "Do you know where they are?" Lily asked.

"No." Sirius shook his head. "Albus does. The son of a bitch locked me up while he planned a sly scheme to take them all back without the empire knowing. He's started it now. The plan was to send your children to James's parents until the two of you could be located. For all I know, they're already there."

"Then we should be there too," Lily said firmly. She looked to James. "Send your mother an owl and tell her that we'll be calling in an hour. I'm going to get dressed." She looked at Sirius, a strange, joyful smile curving her lips. "Thanks."

James thought she looked solid and powerful, but when Lily reached her room, she could barely button her robes she was so completely shaken. Her hands wouldn't be still so that she could work the small pearls into their loops. Her children were alive. Lily wanted to climb out on the roof and shout for joy. She wanted to find Peter Pettigrew and Oscasia and strangle them slowly. She wanted to hug her children and kiss them and tuck them safely into bed. Lily wanted so many conflicting wonderful and terrible things all at once that she was shaking with the need to satisfy those desires.

It took her twice as long as usual to get buttoned properly into her pretty London-town robes. She paused at the mirror, to make sure the rich, green velvet bodice was actually buttoned properly and that her hair looked presentable. She touched the ear-length curls that she'd grown out overnight. Melinda would have too many reasons to pick her apart today. Lily wasn't going to face her mother in law in less than proper attire.

When she came downstairs, James and Sirius were huddled together in front of the hearth, deep in conversation. Lily watched them, and for the first time, she wondered if James had told his friend about her condition. She hoped he hadn't, but they were like brothers. If he was going to tell someone, it would be Sirius. The two of them looked up, similar grim expressions on their faces.

"Albus, it seems, took it on himself to decide when the parents should be informed of their children's kidnappings," James said. "He's known about our children for literally months. If we'd known, we never would have stayed away. You--"

"I would have been safe?" Lily glanced at Sirius nervously, uncertain of how much he knew. "Albus always has a reason for what he does. I'm willing to listen to his. And we can't blame him for things beyond his control, like the actions of a Reaper. Does your mother know we're coming?"

James nodded. "She should by now."

Lily gestured at the windows, and the drapes in all the rooms flew open. "Then it's time for us to make our official, social return to London. Sirius, I expect we'll have callers soon now that the house is open. You should probably make yourself scarce before we get back."

Sirius rose and nodded. "Give my regards to your parents, James, and my godchildren if they're there."

* * *

Squeezed into the pantry of a Muggle bar, Remus held his breath and imagined that he was invisible. On his shoulder, he could just feel the hot breath of the young woman smashed into his side. The Muggle patrons had gone deathly quiet as a black robed figured circled amongst them.

"You barkeep, have you seen this man?" Remus could just see the men as silhouettes, and hear the click of the wizard's leather soled boots. He prayed that this wizard was hunting a different set of fugitives than the two crammed in the cupboard.

"No sir, can't say as I have," the barkeep muttered. "Looks to be a wizard, and we don't serve many wizards here."

Remus wished they could just Apparate away. It would be so easy, except for the mark on their chests and the hounds of Vociferor pursuing them. Any use of magic, was like a signal to the hounds. They came to it like sharks to blood. Just when Remus was about to tell Nyt to Apparate away, they'd take their chances with the hounds, the wizard took his portrait and left the alehouse. Remus heard the conversations restarting outside and drew in a shaky breath. "That was a bullet dodged," he whispered.

"Yeah." Nyt tried to move back a degree and give Remus enough room to open the door, but she just ended up wiggling against him. With a gentle laugh, she groped for the handle herself as she had a better angle on it. "I think I can reach the handle." Nyt got the latch and they stumbled free. The barkeep and other Muggles carefully ignored them. The fact that they'd hidden at the sign of a sheriff deputy wasn't that unusual, and they were dressed as Muggles. If the patrons realized that they were harbouring wizards, they might be less accommodating.

"Are you blushing? You are the most pitiful mercenary wolf in the entire world." Nyt turned to the barkeep, barely containing her giggling. "We need a pitcher of your finest."

"I'm not blushing," Remus hissed, even as his pink cheeks betrayed him. "I can't believe you're laughing."

"Why? Not everyone gets depressed just because they're being hunted by supernatural demon hounds." Nyt smiled resolutely, settled into a vacant corner table, and waited for Remus to join her. "We've got them figured out anyway. We don't use magic, and the hounds can't find us."

"So, you're prepared to live the rest of your life as a Muggle?" Remus asked. "It's not an easy life."

"Until we figure out how to remove the mark, then I'll survive. We will figure out how to fix it."

It was hard to listen to her sometimes, talk about fixing the mark of Vociferor as though it were inevitable. Remus knew from bitter experience that not everything could be fixed. Some things had to be lived with. "Another full moon is coming, and I'm going back to the wolves for the transformation. They have their own Healers and they might know something about dealing with our problem."

"That should be interesting. I've never met another wolf." Nyt grinned. "I wonder if you're a typical specimen and all the propaganda is really wrong? That would be something: honourable, blushing wolves, maligned by the empire."

"You're out of your mind," Remus whispered. "You can't come. They'd kill you or bite you, and don't expect them to let you pick. I'm going to take you to my parents to wait, okay."

Nyt's smile slipped off her face. "Your parents?"

* * *

**Author's Note**

I've been away, figuring some things out, getting my head on straight, working, and getting healthy. Hopefully the chapter keeps the threads and will make sense in the grand scheme.

Gah! It has literally been months. I've missed writing and fandom. It's good to be back in the saddle though. This chapter, and the next couple of chapters are scary from this side of the screen. Reunions and catharsis are hard to get right. Hopefully this hits the right tone, and the next chapter will stay on track.

A million thanks are owed Kasey for betaing.


	22. She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

**Chapter 21 - She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not**

**History of the World Volume XXX Chapter 96 The Rule of Turpin – Arts**

_Much like basic religious freedom, artistic freedom is cultivated by the empire. Young witches and wizards showing talent in painting, music, or dance, are given the option of specialized training in lieu of advanced spell casting education. _

_Literature and poetry are less actively cultivated. Over the years, a predilection for malcontents and reactionaries in these disciplines eventually resulted in their strict regulation and removal from all approved Empire Curriculums. _

* * *

"One, two, three, four, perfect," Isobel whispered. She used the small camel haired paintbrush to place a final fifth petal on the pink daisy she was creating. All Daisies were required to have odd numbers of petals so that if a girl came along and needed to determine if someone liked her, she would get a happy answer. Leaning onto her right foot she peeked at the picture the other painter, her grandfather, was creating.

Blue and green speckled fingers used a larger version of the paintbrush she clutched in her own hand to add texture to a landscape of realistic, white and yellow daisies blanketing a field. Her grandfather. Isobel let the title rattle around her head. She watched him brushing at his canvas, quietly memorizing the graceful movements of his hands and the way his stubbled cheek twitched with a transient smile every now and then.

"Are you finished then?" Bartholomew asked. He walked over to Isobel's canvas and nodded to the simple whimsical flower. "Surreal, quite good I'd say."

She had no idea what surreal meant, but she blushed anyway. "It doesn't look real like yours."

"Realism isn't everything. Is pink your favourite colour?" Bart strolled over to his closet and extracted a carefully draped canvas.

"Pink is okay, but yellow is nicer." She thought of Professor Umbridge and shuddered. "Yellow is actually much better." Isobel tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, obliviously giving herself a pink streak of hair. "Do you have a favourite colour?"

"I've always been partial to purple." Bart patted his stained plum coloured vest. "Would you like to see something your dad painted? He never was much for it, but he tried his hand at my trade a couple of times when he was around your age."

Isobel shrugged. She hadn't got used to the idea of family that extended beyond her brother. A painting by a father she couldn't remember could be interesting, proof that he existed anyway. Bartholomew undraped the canvas he had extracted, and presented it proudly. Isobel took the picture and ran her fingers over its unevenly painted surface. The artist had glopped the paint on without finesse or care, creating a colourful example of what Isobel guessed was supposed to be a hippogriff. A sloppy signature at the bottom read simply J.P.

"J. Potter," Isobel said. "John? Jackson? Jeffrey?"

"James," Bart supplied.

"James," Isobel repeated. "Did they name Harry and me, well, our names? Am I Beth or Susan? Is Harry actually James Jr.? I'd just call him Junior if he is." She grinned at that thought.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but you're stuck with your name. The people who took you only saw fit to change your last name." Bart's expression flickered from the genial expression toward something darker and unrecognizable to Isobel, but he smiled again before she could really ponder if it was pain or anger or frustration he had to swallow. He gently took back James's painting before it became too heavy for her small arms.

_Not changing our names was silly. Seems it would have made us easier to find, _Isobel thought bitterly. She didn't want to accuse her Grandfather of being negligent or thoughtless. Really, her parents were the people who ought to have been keeping up with their children. If she wanted to be annoyed with someone, she should probably be annoyed with them.

"You know, you can have any paintings in this studio to decorate your room, well, except that portrait on the far wall. It's a commission. Besides, don't know why you would want such a stern woman glaring at you on the wall." He pulled back the drape covering it for Isobel's critical review.

"She isn't very pretty," Isobel agreed. She walked around the room, looking at the pictures. Her grandfather was very talented. When he wasn't painting un-pretty people, he created landscapes and florals. Occasionally there was a canvas with just colours swirled together in repeating patterns. Isobel stared at those the longest, and finally had to ask, "Is that what magic looks like?" She wanted to touch the lovely repeating swirls of red and orange and yellow.

Bart grinned proudly. "Those are my special paintings. Math is a pattern that repeats in life. It's geometric. Believe it or not, Arithamantcy was one of my best classes in school. Just planning one of those paintings takes me months and then executing it...there is a reason I've only painted a handful of them. If you like it, please take it."

"Really?" Isobel stroked the frame, enraptured with her treasure."For my room, it's so alive."

"Now come on, I expect you to choose more than one. These canvases aren't doing anyone any good covered with drapes and mouldering."

In the end, Isobel chose three more paintings, her pink daisy, her grandpas real daisies, and her dad's hippogriff. "You don't mind if I take J.P.'s hippogriff, do you?"

Bart laughed and shook his head. "Not at all, but I always thought it was one of the geese from the pond. I can see hippogriff though."

A knock at the door ended the midmorning painting session with abrupt finality. Isobel waited nervously for Melinda to bustle in. She left that morning to buy some clothes and other necessities. According to her, it was too dangerous for Isobel to come out for supply purchasing as she was supposed to be hiding. As unlikely as she was to run into an acquaintance, it just couldn't be risked. Isobel had been quietly pleased for the chance to just pal around with her grandfather, to follow him into the secret world of his studio with its strange smells and colourful treasures.

Bart had one of her new treasures stretched over his knees, making sure it was ready for hanging on her bedroom wall. He nodded toward to studio door. "Let your grandmother in. That door only opens from the inside when there are brushes out of the jar."

She had forgotten the pink stained brush in her hand. Isobel considered replacing the brush and shouting, come in, but that wouldn't be very polite. Instead she took her time crossing the room and twisted the cool brass handle of the door. It swung inside soundlessly. Her mouth dropped open, and she took two quick steps backward. A man was at the door, a man with unruly black hair, round glasses, and disturbingly familiar features. Isobel lifted her paintbrush like a weapon, like a wand, silently ordering the new arrival to keep his distance.

Frowning at the tense silence, Bart looked up and smiled. "James, my boy, you should have come home for Solstice. Your parents are getting old and we like seeing you from time to time. Isobel, this is your father, James. James, the young lady holding you at bay with the pink acrylics is Isobel." Grunting, Bart set aside Isobel's daisy. He moved past her hastily brandished paintbrush and enveloped his son in a tight hug.

Isobel let her paintbrush drop, feeling foolish and overwhelmed. J.P., James Potter, her very own dad, had arrived on the scene. In less than twenty four hours, her family acquaintances had more than doubled. What next? Would there be cousins, aunts, uncles?

"We rang the bell, though I know you don't hear it with your studio closed. Of course, the front door still recognizes me and opened. Lily is waiting downstairs," James explained.

"Of course. I'll go fetch her." Bart ushered James into the studio and stood aside so that daughter and father might get a good look at one another.

"Isobel, I wouldn't expect that you remember me," James said ineffectually. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, leaving it more dramatically akimbo. He looked so like Harry in that instant, that Isobel couldn't help herself, she started to cry. She wanted Harry. Her big brother would make this all easier. He would stand in front of her and make sure these people were safe and honest and not playing some elaborate game. "Gods, you're crying." James went to a knee and reached out a hand, not sure what to do. "Please don't do that. Please don't cry."

"You're really my dad?" Isobel asked. When he nodded she wiped the tears off her cheeks, leaving more pink streaks behind. She crossed her arms over her chest, too scared and awkward to cross the distance between them. This was her dad. How could he be anyone else looking like Harry the way he did? Isobel frowned, her heart racing in her chest. "So, where have you been? Why didn't you come for us sooner?" _Why shouldn't I hate you?_

Though he had anticipated the question, he hadn't expected the vehemence. "Your mother and I are soldiers, revolutionaries, not legionaries. And we came as soon as we knew you were alive."

"Revolutionaries...Rebels? Criminals then," Isobel said. The lessons in the group home had taught her a few things. "Is that why the empire took us, because you're criminals?"

* * *

Lily tried sitting in the entry hall where James left her, but the nervous energy inside her would have none of it, so she paced instead, from settee to chair to door and around and around again. What was taking so long, unless no one was home? James had had to move from room to room, finding nothing and no one. Wild theories ran through her mind. Somehow Oscasia had detected their subterfuge and had reclaimed her property, tossing James's parents into a deep dark cell for good measure. "No," Lily hissed. Oscasia wasn't omniscient. She had needed traitors like Peter to steal children. Isobel and Harry would be safe with their grandparents. So where was everyone? Why hadn't anyone answered the bell?

"Please let the children be here," Lily prayed under her breath. On her way back to the settee in her pacing route, the door creaked open, admitting the imperious form of Melinda Potter, her arms loaded with packages. Lily's hand went to her heart as she half expected a pair of children to follow her mother in law into the house. But no children entered, and the door creaked shut again. Melinda nodded to her, and Lily returned the gesture, feeling as awkward as she had at their first meeting, before they ever disagreed, before she and James joined the rebellion.

"Let me help you with those," Lily offered quickly, moving to take some of the neatly wrapped boxes before Melinda could acquiesce. "Big shopping day?"

"Your daughter arrived with nothing but rags on her back. She needed clothes and shoes and a slicker," Melinda said as she headed for the stairs.

Lily heard the hint of accusation in Melinda's voice, the hint of long-held-in opinions and blame. But Lily didn't bristle back or pull away, though she nearly dropped her half of the packages. Isobel was here, and that was the only bit that mattered. Melinda passed Bart on her way upstairs, and they leaned in for a quick whispered exchange. Bart continued downstairs. He relieved Lily of her packages and gave his daughter in law an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek. "You've stayed away too long. Family has to make time for each other. Melinda and I are going to Isobel's room to unpack these things. You join James and your daughter in the studio. We'll give you a bit of time to say hello."

Lily smiled, her heart hammering. "Thank you," she murmured. Racing up the stairs, and around the corner, Lily stopped short, just behind James where he knelt in the doorway. Her daughter was smeared, head to foot in pink paint, but everything else was as she imagined, exactly the little girl she had dreamt of. Brown hair framed a pale, thin face set with huge brown eyes. Why wasn't she smiling?

"I want Harry," Isobel said firmly. She looked over James shoulder to Lily and met her eyes. "Our parents are criminals, and Harry will know what we should do."

"Criminals? We aren't criminals," Lily said, her smile faltering. "I'm Lily, your mum, and this is your dad, and we are not criminals." Had Melinda done this, filled Isobel's head with this poison? "Who told you we were criminals?"

"You're rebels and rebels are criminals. Everyone knows that," Isobel said, her eyes wide. "I go to class like everyone else. I'm not an idiot."

Group home propaganda, Lily thought wincing. Of course Melinda wouldn't try to turn Isobel against her parents. Even thinking it had been mad. "I guess by their standards we aren't always behaving in a perfectly legal manner."

"Technically," James agreed grudgingly. "And I think getting Harry is a marvellous idea, don't you love?"

"Absolutely," Lily agreed.

Watching them, Isobel felt the head of steam she had built up dissipate. The two of them were picture postcard examples of what parents should look like, handsome James and pretty, green-eyed Lily. Isobel felt a pang of remorse for the way she had acted, attacking them and their moral fibre. Why did she always do that? She would find a flaw in something otherwise ideal and attack it like it really mattered, even if it didn't matter at all. Harry wouldn't have done it. At least she didn't think he would have. Watching them, Isobel decided that she didn't care if they were criminals. She could see her brother in them, in both of them, but she couldn't see one trace of herself. She studied them, suddenly too shy to speak. Why didn't she have red hair or green eyes or unruly hair? Tears pricked her eyes again. It was too much to process, too much scary wonderful truth.

Lily slipped past James. Using her sleeve, she wiped Isobel's paint and tear streaked cheeks. Without exchanging another word or asking permission, she hugged her daughter. After a moment, James joined in. It was the longest hug of her life, two layers of parents, a mum and a dad had hold of her. Isobel surrendered to the moment, breathing them, feeling safe and wanted and loved.

When the embrace ended, Isobel stepped back, and smiled. "You're both covered in paint."

James looked at the pink streaks on his shirt sleeves and grinned. "Easily remedied."

"Would you like to see what I painted?" Isobel asked hesitantly. Harry usually told her to sod off when she wanted to show him her scribbling. He was always so busy.

"Please show us," Lily said with enthusiasm.

The earlier confrontation forgotten, Isobel stood beside her pink daisy, emboldened by her grandfather's earlier praise. "It's a pink daisy," Isobel clarified, "with five petals so it always ends on love if the question were ever posed."

James looked confused but Lily nodded quickly. "He loves me, he love me not."

"Oh, brilliant," James agreed.

Basking in the glow of their affection, Isobel had a sudden, selfish thought. Wouldn't it be nice if Harry just stayed away at school and let them all alone for a few months? He liked school anyway. She loved her brother and she missed him, but how long would it take her parents to realize what the empire had already determined? Harry was the better wizard, the star, the popular Quidditch player. And he was the better son, with his father's looks and his mother's eyes. One look at their first born and any mention of Isobel's brilliance would vanish. For the first time in her life, she had gotten something first, something to herself, and she wanted to keep it for a short while.

"You know, Harry may be hard to locate," Isobel said suddenly. "He is always busy with school and Quidditch and birthday parties. He really likes school and Quidditch."

"He sounds a bit like his father to hear you talk," Lily said. "Please don't worry about your brother. We'll find him very soon and bring him home."

"I know." Isobel looked away, pleased and ashamed and conflicted. "I miss him."

* * *

The leaves had browned and begun to fall by the time George finally took the first step on the long walk off Moody's mountain. Tracing his hands over his thick overcoat, he ran through a mental inventory: wand, rabbit jerky, fresh water, letter for his new commander. He should survive the walk without too much discomfort.

Moody stood awkwardly on his doorstep, watching his student. "The trolls are pretty thick until you get below the river, but if you stick to the main trail, it's warded against them."

"I know." George turned back and surveyed the tiny house that had been his home for nearly a year. Most of his minutes inside those walls were spent begrudgingly, but he had learned a few things, enough to maybe survive according to Moody. "Thanks."

Moody nodded, then pivoted on his artificial leg and strode back inside, slamming the door behind him.

"Farewell, good luck, been nice knowing you," George whispered to himself, filling in the more affectionate farewell that he imagined Moody meant by cautioning him against the trolls. Taking his first step down the trail, George felt a wave of doubt hit him. After railing for months that he had to get off the mountain and save his brother, he had been dismissed. What would the rebel commander he was off to meet think of his personal quest?

Well, there was no law holding him in the rebellion. If the situation didn't suit, George could always go his own way and save Fred all on his own. As simple and logical as it sounded in his head, the thought brought him no comfort. With or without the assistance of the Rebellion, he had no idea how to help his brother.

* * *

Slouching low in his seat, barely listening to Professor Dover lecture about verb tenses and spell crafting, Harry just spotted a slip of parchment slipped under his text. Another few minutes and he might actually have been asleep. Surreptitiously he read the note scribbled in Draco's slanted handwriting.

_Halloween is coming up. We need to make plans. The school party is such a bore. Ideas? -D_

Harry twiddled his quill and pondered his response. Truth be told, he wasn't anxious to attend another stuffy Halloween party, especially after he and Draco took a dunking last year, but what else could they do?

_We could fly somewhere. We have brooms. But where would we find something interesting? -H_

Professor Dover continued to drone from the front of the room, spitting out conjugations and making some point about transformation spells. Harry waited until he was fairly certain that her attention was across the room before returning the note.

Under the table Hermione struck, kicking him in the shin. "Pay attention, slacker," she hissed almost inaudibly. She pointed to her notes and gestured to indicate that they were off limits.

Harry focused his attention on the professor, his complexion turning red. It was as bad as having your Mum along in class sitting next to Hermione some days. When Draco returned the note again, Harry had to pick a moment when Hermione was scribbling and Professor Dover wasn't looking to slip it out.

A new set of handwriting had appeared below his response, neat loopy script, Lisa.

_Isn't Halloween a full moon this year? -L_

_It is! My dad is sheriff. He organizes the werewolf hunts. We could watch. I've always wanted to see one. -D _

_Perfection. Sign below unless you're too scared to come. -L_

_Lisa Turpin_

_Draco Malfoy_

Harry read through the interchange, excitement building. According to the educational material, werewolves were unfortunate wizards who had been bitten and driven mad by an incurable curse. The hunts were about controlling a public health hazard, but they weren't clinical affairs. Death and biting sometimes befell the hunters.

Harry grinned and added his name to the bottom of the list. Seeing a real werewolf sounded like a proper adventure for Halloween.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

We are rapidly approaching the "werewolf" section. Remus is going to see his pack and Tonks is going to meet his parents. Harry and company are going to see a werewolf hunt, but don't count on them being entertained or staying out of trouble.


	23. Full Moon

**Chapter 22 – Full Moon**

**History of the World Volume XI Chapter 6 The Rule of Turpin – Werewolves**

_Lycanthropy did not always carry an automatic order of execution upon diagnosis. For several years a coalition of Healers worked to find a cure to this dangerous condition. Their conclusions, that the curse could not be reversed, only mitigated, resulted in the current more stringent laws. Several advocates have come forward to defend the infected, most notably..._

* * *

Small and weather-worn the Lupin's cottage looked like nothing more than another Muggle hovel crouching unobtrusively in the wilderness. Behind the rough hewn wood of their front door, clean carpets and soft furniture belied the exterior. This was a wizard's home, maybe not an important or powerful wizard but someone with the wherewithal to charm a decent light fixture anyway.

Nyt sat nervously on the edge of a floral print sofa, acutely conscious of her road-worn clothes that she had been unable to mend properly in weeks. Evading the hounds of Vociferor meant no spellwork, not even a little Reparo or Scourgify to freshen the wardrobe.

Samuel Lupin, a tidy man with grey hair and brown eyes, watched her from his shabby leather armchair. His fingers laced together on his lap and he didn't smile. His clean white shirt and starched grey pants, seemed to judge her and her bedraggled attire with their smartness. Nyt made herself smile weakly. "So, nice house you have here."

Samuel shrugged. "It's adequate. How long have you been _running_ with my son?"

"Oh, we've been travelling together for a few months." Remus hadn't exactly taken much time to introduce her to his parents or explain their situation. He needed to consult with his pack's healer, preferably before the full moon tonight. The healers would be busy patching up themselves and their pack after a night howling and hunting, and would have little time to discuss curse marks and their removal tomorrow.

"Sunset is imminent. Moonrise won't be far behind. Would you like to see the basement?" Samuel asked. "I find it's best to get a guest locked in early rather than late."

"Locked up?" Nyt asked, slightly horrified. "You want to lock me in the basement?"

"Of course, you don't expect us to let you transform in the sitting room. I assume if you were welcome with Remus's pack he would have taken you with him tonight. You won't be able to roam the woods here safely. Or do you have another idea?"

"No, you don't understand; I'm not a werewolf." Nyt pointed to herself and smiled weakly. "Plain old witch, no curses, well that curse mark, but not a real curse, definitely not lycanthropy. Not that there's anything wrong with being a lycanthrope. I mean not that it's a pleasant condition either." She gestured vaguely feeling stupid. "You know what I mean."

For the first time, Samuel smiled at her. "Yes, I think I do. Why don't you tell me how you met my son?"

* * *

"I hate this stupid dress," Hermione muttered under her breath. Much like last year's Halloween festivities everyone had to attend a formal party, shed their regular clothes, and dress up. The old elitists wanted to view the baby elitists. And to make it all simpler for the more bigoted ones you could spot the group home kids by the stupid matching robes and colour coding.

Hermione considered transfiguring the yellow bodice of her dress just to be contrary, but her classmates would probably just think she was being vain or ashamed. Instead she stowed her wand in a pocket and crossed the hall to the boy's dorm.

Ron had donned the yellow accented school issue robes like last year. Dressed similarly, Harry was in deep discussion with his partner, Draco. Choosing to ignore the plotting boys, she joined Ron. "Solidarity again?" Hermione asked. "You can wear your own dress robes. I wouldn't get mad. Wearing the school robes will just confuse the gawkers."

"Why do I care what anyone thinks?" Ron asked, secretly hoping Hermione never found out how frilly the robes his mother sent with him were. He liked that she thought he was being supportive. "Do you know what they're up to?" Ron jerked his head toward Harry and Draco. "I can't get anything out of them."

"Don't know, don't care," Hermione half-lied. If Harry wanted to be best friends with the enemy and make secret plans with the enemy that was his business. When he figured out how stupid he was being, she would be there... to ridicule him unmercifully for the lapse in judgment.

"Time to line up!" a shrill voice in the hall called.

Harry and Draco finally broke away from their whispered conversation. Draco smirked and headed for the hall, while Harry scuttled over to join Ron and Hermione. "You look so guilty," Hermione glowered. "What were the two of you talking about?"

"Nothing important." Harry straightened his tie and grinned, knowing that Hermione could read him like a book, but unable to tell her the plan. Lisa and Draco were unwilling to invite anyone else on their werewolf adventure, and he couldn't very well betray their confidence when the three of them were about to break a few dozen school rules. After the way their Christmas excursion had turned out, Hermione wouldn't want to come anyway and would probably do her best to keep Harry out of the danger (fun) too. "We should get in line, right?"

"Right!" Ron agreed. He herded his two friends toward the door before Hermione could work up anything hostile to say.

* * *

Picking his way through the woods at twilight, Remus had no trouble moving soundlessly. His senses were at their sharpest pre-transformation. The deeper he travelled into the closely packed trees, the scents of his pack mates began to find him. One wolf, then three, then eight, circled him-gently herded him toward their encampment.

The acrid smell of smoke and blood reached him, and his fellow wolves finally made themselves seen. Remus knew these men and women. United by the curse in their veins, they were sworn to one another, close as siblings and sometimes as antagonistic.

"If it isn't our little puppy, home to run with his big brothers and sisters."

Remus turned to the man who'd addressed him, and smiled thinly, acutely aware of their dissimilarity. This man wore his lycanthropy differently; the wolf swam closer to the surface. Sporting barely human eyes and elongated teeth, he would never be able to pass for normal like Remus managed daily. "Thanks for the welcome, Aaron, everyone." He nodded politely to the group around him, which earned him laughs and some polite nods in return. Remus felt his own wolf stirring in their presence.

"I need to see Marigold before moonrise." Remus addressed Aaron, the current alpha, careful not to hold eye contact with him for more than a moment at a time.

"Are you ill then?" Aaron asked. "Walk with me and I'll take you personally."

Remus knew better than to fall behind when his Alpha took off at a graceful lope. This close to the full moon, no one could be held responsible for losing control at the slightest provocation. Hundreds of smells assailed him as they cut through camp, so many wolves together that their scent became an amalgam he forever associated with this second home.

"She's busy so be quick." Aaron grinned ferociously and pulled the flap to a frayed red tent open. His Alpha's smile said everything unexpressed between them. Remus wasn't liked here. He was tolerated. A useful wolf who leashed himself between full moons and had enough training with a wand to pass for a full wizard, he brought their healer supplies and interacted with the world for them when necessary.

Remus sometimes hated his lot, unable to fit in truly with either humans or wolves. He could blame his parents for it, had blamed them for a few years after his expulsion from school. Law abiding citizens were supposed to surrender their children for execution if they were bitten by a werewolf. The more squeamish simply abandoned their unfortunate progeny to the nearest suspected wolf encampment and wished them good luck. His parents thought they could keep him, teach him. They thought he could be different, and he was so different that he became a disgusting half-breed in the eyes of all parties.

Remus ducked into the tent and waved to the healer he had travelled so far to consult. Wizened and stooped, she had only a few wisps of snowy hair left on her head. Myopic grey eyes squinted his way and she gestured him closer. She waved a surprisingly polished wand in a diagnostic spell without waiting for his complaint. Remus always felt comfortable with Marigold, the only other wand-trained wolf in this particular pack. She smiled a snaggle-toothed grin and tapped the mark over his breastbone.

"You escaped from Vociferor, my boy. Aside from that mark, do you have any other illnesses to report? Do you need a mind healer? I'm not trained in such things."

"I wasn't tortured; a rescue mission brought me there. The mark is my only concern. Can it be removed?" Remus asked. She had recognized his condition easily; perhaps she really could help him remove it.

"It will fade." Marigold gestured dismissively. "Give it a few full moons. The wolf will not tolerate another curse on its host. Just be patient and you will be free again, as free as any of us are."

Remus felt a moment's relief before he thought of Nyt, waiting for him with his parents. She still needed a cure. "Is there another way to remove it? A witch I'm travelling with also bears the mark."

Marigold stared at him, her clouded eyes alight with perception. "She will die with that mark, unless she wants to trade it for a new curse."

His mind balked at the implication he read into that statement. She wasn't suggesting lycanthropy as a cure? "You're out of your mind." Remus felt his wolf rising with his temper, his hackles stood on end, his fingernails thickened and sharpened. He bared his teeth in abject fury. "No one is biting her."

"Then she will bear that mark. One curse or the other, I don't have another answer." Showing no sign that his outburst either surprised or frightened her, Marigold shuffled to Remus's side and patted his arm. "Calm down now. The moon will be up soon and you can vent your frustration like a proper wolf."

But he wasn't a proper wolf. Remus sagged hopelessly. What if Nyt asked him to bite her? Could he really bite another human being? The wolf in him practically screamed yes. The wolf in him wanted nothing so much as a chance to taste human flesh. And the wolf was coming tonight. Remus staggered out of the tent, his blood feverish with wolfish desires, no different than the other members of his pack in that moment, he howled. The conflicted man, surrendering eagerly to simple instincts, he began to run with the other anxious lycanthropes, awaiting their full transformation and the freedom of their curse.

* * *

It was surprisingly easy to escape the Halloween festivities at school. Aside from the initial march in, no one was keeping track of the children. Harry and Lisa followed a step behind Draco as he led them back to the dorms. "My emergency Portkey will get us as far as home. The hunt is always on our estate. It's one of the Sheriff's primary responsibilities, executing the werewolves. The hunt is traditional. It's been held for generations."

"Not that I'm backing out," Harry said, "but what's to keep us from getting into trouble here. I don't fancy dying or being bitten, thanks."

Draco rolled his eyes. "The werewolves are caged to start. They're only released after the transformation and it's obvious that they are in fact infected. We're going to watch the transformation and then we'll get out of there before things get dangerous."

"I can't wait to see a werewolf up close," Lisa whispered, an excited glint to her eyes. "They're supposed to be incredibly powerful."

"Don't forget insane and deadly," Harry added. "This should be significantly less boring than the party."

Draco presented his two closest friends with a black scarf. "Grab on." As soon as they complied, he muttered the activation phrase. "Security maximus."

Transportation circles were the instantaneous transportation method of choice for most situations due to their smooth efficiency. Harry had never actually tried a Portkey before. The device seemed to drag him by a hook in his navel and tossed him roughly onto the thick carpet of Draco's bedroom. "Ouch. Do you think we could take a transportation circle back?" Harry asked, face-planted in the carpeting.

Chuckling, Draco helped Harry to his feet. "First time using a Portkey?"

"How could you tell?" Harry stretched and rubbed his neck until the soreness began to subside.

"Can you walk and recover? Moonrise isn't too far off," Lisa asked, a hint of petulance in her tone.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Of course, lead the way Draco." It wasn't his first time at Malfoy Manor, but Harry still felt slightly awed by the sheer size of the dwelling. Only three people lived in the giant home. The group home wasn't half as large and it housed a few hundred. The dorms had all been magically expanded to their maximum and the yard had to be used in shifts.

"Dobby!" Draco called. A short creature with bat-like ears and giant protuberant eyes appeared. It cowered in front of the three wizards as though expecting to be attacked at any moment.

Of course a giant home like this would have a House-elf. Harry smiled and crouched down. He had never actually seen one before. "How cool. You're a House-elf."

The elf stared back at Harry as though he were behaving very bizarrely. "Yes sir, Dobby is being master Draco's elf."

"He's mine personally. Mother assigned him to me," Draco said with a smug smile. "He has to do what I say and keep my secrets over anyone else in the family. Now Dobby, we are going to watch the werewolves transform. You are going to lead us there and make sure we get away undetected after watching the show."

Dobby let out a soft shriek and covered his face. "Master Draco, werewolves are being dangerous. Master Draco's father would not approve."

"Whose elf are you, Dobby?" Draco asked coolly.

"Yours, Master Draco." With a defeated sigh, the elf gestured for the children to follow him.

"Make us undetectable, Dobby," Draco commanded before they stepped outside. "It's elf magic, better than disillusionment. Dobby has helped me on adventures before."

"An elf seems to be a valuable companion to have," Harry remarked. The small elf looked at Harry again, eyes widened.

"Possession to have, you mean," Draco said.

"Right," Harry agreed.

Lisa just snorted and prodded their guide forward. "We're going to miss it if we keep dawdling."

Dobby lead them to a clearing but stopped while they were still in the shadows. He gestured toward a pair of metal cages and stepped timidly behind Draco.

Harry wasn't sure what he really expected to see in the cages prior to moonrise. Perhaps feral men with spittle flying and untamed facial hair, he definitely expected something large and scary that hinted at the madness within. What they found was a boy and a woman. Looking scrawny and underfed, the boy stared up at the sky, calm resignation written on his features. He couldn't be much older than them. The woman in the metal cage next to him, wept freely into her homespun skirt.

A pair of wizards, one Harry recognized as Draco's father approached the cages. He slid a sheet of parchment into the cage of the woman and another into the boy's. "If you can't read, those are your writs of execution. Do you have any last words? It won't be long now."

The woman looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "Please, please, I beg you, let my son go. He isn't a wolf, not really. His father was a Muggle. He's not infected. It didn't pass on and he wasn't bitten. It's only me. Please? I beg you."

"We'll see when the moon rises, won't we," Lucius said.

The two wizards left, and the boy looked at his mother for the first time since their audience had arrived. "Please don't beg for me like that. There isn't any point. We're dead. We can die with dignity. And we might even take one or two of the hunters with us. Maybe I will kill the one who killed Dad. That would almost be worth it."

"Worth it?" The woman stood and howled like a wounded animal. "My dignity is worth your life. If there is any chance, I will beg until the moon takes me and the hunters crush the life from me."

The boy shook his head and resumed staring at the starry sky, waiting for the moon. "There isn't any chance, and you know it."

Only a few feet away, three children who had come to be entertained squirmed in front of the show they had found. "They don't seem so insane right now," Harry said from his place in the shadows. "The book said that they'd be completely mad."

"No, they aren't mad. I've seen madness." Lisa stared at the pair raptly. "You can't always believe what you're taught or what you read. Truth is seeing. This is a werewolf. They're so ordinary."

"They won't be ordinary in a few minutes when the transformation happens," Draco said. He frowned and shuffled his feet, uncomfortable with the turn his adventure had taken.

"I can't watch this," Harry said abruptly. He turned and started walking briskly back the way they'd come. What had possessed them to think this might be entertaining? He was glad that they hadn't told anyone else their plan. Tonight felt shameful and disastrous. He just wanted to go back to school and forget that they had ever ventured out.

"Harry wait," Draco called. He caught up to his friend and spun him by his arm. "I didn't know it was going to be like that either."

Lisa followed Draco but her expression remained impassive. "You don't want to watch. So you're going to run away? That seems a little cowardly."

"You think it would be braver to watch?" Draco asked.

"It would be braver to unlock their cages and give them a head start." Lisa smiled at the boys. "Or is that too much adventure for you?"

Would unlocking the cages accomplish anything? Maybe, maybe not, but the shame Harry felt called for some act of contrition. Harry met Lisa's challenging gaze and nodded gravely. "I'm not afraid. How about you Draco?"

Draco raked his hands through his perfectly parted hair and looked nervously over his shoulder as though his father might be listening. "Fine, I'm in, but we do this my way. Dobby, we're going to need a distraction."

* * *

**Author's note:**

It has been a few years since this fic was properly worked on. Expect a chapter a week for 7-10 weeks. Some minor editing to old chapters is underway: mainly correcting eye and hair colours where I had them wrong in a couple of spots, removing a couple of illogical things like having vinyl in this world. Most Muggles don't read, who invented vinyl? If you catch any brain bumps like the vinyl, please prod me about it and I'll edit it out.


	24. Growing Pains

**Chapter 23 – Growing Pains **

History of the World Volume XXIII Chapter 37 The Rule of Turpin – Managing Impatience of the Masses

_Change is always possible if slow in any bureaucracy. Faith that change is possible within the given system is essential to stability and satisfaction among the general populace. Peaceful avenues of political expression and suggestion are not only tolerated but to an extent encouraged in the successful, enduring empire. Advocates of change only become militant when the prospect of meaningful transformation becomes hopeless to them._

* * *

Unlike her husband, Lily had not often visited Albus Dumbledore's office. It had been years since she sat in one of his comfortable armchairs and met the man's always sharp blue eyes in person. In her handful of visits she had never sat so stiffly, never with so many swirling conflicted emotions toward the man.

"It is good to see both of you alive and well," Albus said. "I'm sure you have questions, so I'll save mine and allow you yours."

"Thank you for finding our children and sending our daughter home." Lily leaned forward in her chair. "I, we actually, want our son now."

"Of course you do, you've been robbed of years; losing another day must sound like an untenable proposition. Unfortunately, this issue is larger than your family. More than a hundred families are wrapped up in this crime. I've arranged it so that everyone's children can come home without the empire knowing or coming looking for them again. It requires patience, which is more than anyone has a right to ask of you or any parent in your situation. But I have to ask it."

"Exactly how much patience do you expect?" James asked. "My mother seems to think you want us to wait until the spring. That seems an exceptionally long time."

"It is the price of anonymity and safety. Your family will be whole again in a few short months, whole and secure. If you burst into the Class I school and reclaim your son today, your family will be exposed to the empire. Potentially you would be exposing all the others. Harry is safe in classes and will be home with you very soon." Albus leaned forward his expression intense but sympathetic. His every meeting for the last several days had been with parents in varying stages of relief or shock or rage. He felt well prepared for whatever emotional storm or demands the Potters might bring.

"Of course you're right," Lily said abruptly. James seemed startled but didn't interrupt her. "Oscasia has been collecting children for quite a long time. I'm sure she has ways of knowing when her system is being subverted. Our children were stolen from under our noses when we thought the empire didn't even know they existed. Caution is appropriate here, but I hate it."

"I'm sorry but the spring? That's too long." James stood and circled behind his chair, taking a moment to compose himself. He addressed Lily. "We discussed this. What about Harry? Everyone thinks Isobel is dead. It isn't fair to let him grieve for his sister. I won't treat him that way even if it is for his safety."

Lily winced. She had grieved for two children who weren't dead. Torturing her son with almost the same lie was unacceptable. "Does he think his sister is dead?" Lily asked. "We won't have him suffer under that misconception. You're going to have to make an exception for him if there is any chance that he does. We'll deal with the consequences."

Albus' eyebrows rose and he nodded. "Of course, there aren't so many sibling pairs in this process. Harry hasn't been informed of his sister's apparent death, and there is no reason to think that will change, but I can put some extra safeguards in to protect him from that erroneous news."

Lily and James exchanged a long look in which they seemed to reach a silent accord. "We don't like it, and I want an actual date when he'll be home, but we can wait until it's safe," James said.

"Excellent." Albus leaned back in his seat, his shoulders visibly relaxing. "Now, I'd like to hear what happened to the both of you in Vietnam."

James took Lily's hand, allowing her to take the lead for this debriefing. She could tell Albus as little or as much about her ordeal as she was comfortable with. He wouldn't betray her confidence for anything.

"James and the other Animagi escaped unscathed," Lily replied. "I was attacked and cursed by a Reaper."

* * *

Edgar, part-time squirrel and second in charge of the rebellion's elite Animagus corp., warmed his hands by the fire. His commander sat directly across from him, shaggy black hair brushed forward into his eyes. The others had built their own fires and were far enough removed to allow a relatively private conversation between them which Edgar intended to take full advantage of. "So Commander, now that your friend is back and we don't need to look for him, what's our mission? The Reapers found us pretty fast hiding out a full continent from home. Are we still hiding?"

"I never liked the hiding plan. We're going back on the offensive. We'll see how they like being hunted. This is personal." It had technically been personal since Derek's death in their first encounter with the Emperor's enforcers, but it was more so now. Sirius couldn't tell Edgar what the Reapers had done to Lily, as James refused to go into detail, but he had been clear about one thing, their destruction was essential for her continued health and wellbeing. "You kill one and they come back as someone else. I think it might be best to capture one and figure out what makes it tick."

"I like taking things apart and putting them back together." Edgar rubbed his hands together as though eagerly anticipating the puzzle of a cursed enforcer. "How do we start?"

"We're going to need a very good trap. Ideally, we would isolate our target from his friends and then dissect him in peace." Sirius laced his fingers together and smiled at his lieutenant. "You're good with traps. What do you think?"

"I've got some excellent runic snares that should thoroughly incapacitate our target, but we'll need bait," Edgar said.

"What do you mean? We have bait. You realize I'm at the top of their hit list?"

Saving Edgar from having to comment, an old gray post-owl fluttered from the sky and lit on Sirius's knee. It thrust its letter-encumbered leg at him and hooted twice.

"I know that owl." Edgar sat up straighter. "That's Sheba, Moody's owl." All Sirius's Animagi had spent at least some time with Alastor Moody. He taught most of them to transform, and those he hadn't taught transformation, he'd taught other important, survival skills.

"So it is." Sirius relieved Sheba of her cargo and offered her a drink of water. She clicked her beak as though he had offered to cut off her wings and flew away. The crotchety old owl would not eat or drink anything that she hadn't foraged for herself. "Paranoid bird."

"It's nice to see that some things never change," Edgar said. He found himself thinking almost wistfully of his time stuck on a mountain training with Moody. He probably wouldn't be alive except for the old coot's lessons.

Sirius tore into the letter and began reading. "Moody is sending us a new guy." He passed the letter over to Edgar and waited for him to read it through.

"He isn't even of age. He's sixteen." Edgar gnawed his lip and finished the brief letter. He couldn't help thinking of Derek and how much more dangerous things had become lately. "Maybe we should ship him to one of the hiding groups."

"Moody wouldn't send us an Animagus unable to take care of himself, but this isn't the best time to be breaking in a new recruit either," Sirius said. "I'll just have to take his measure when he arrives and decide whether to keep him."

* * *

Bartholomew stretched and put away his paint brush. Across his studio, Isobel sat in the corner reading a novel from the library. Generations earlier, when the Empire declared all literature illegal, pleasure reading virtually disappeared as a pastime, but many of the older families still had a few novels hidden deep in their libraries. Isobel discovered a book of fairytales and thought they were true for most of the afternoon until he'd been forced to tell her what she'd been reading was made up, someone's fantasy. She had been horrified at first. She knew literature was illegal. She had abandoned the novel and picked out a spell book to read instead. She had resisted her curiosity about the novel's ending for nearly a half hour before surreptitiously switching the books back.

Less than a week in their household, and Isobel had managed to stay quite close to her grandfather's side. She would tolerate her grandmother's company and seemed to want to know her parents, though she couldn't seem to find anything to say around them. "Are you ready for lunch poppet? Your parents will be back from their meeting and wondering where you are."

Isobel carefully marked her place in the book and tucked it under her arm. Her brown hair was pulled back in a simple plait and she wore some loose fitting canvas trousers and shirt, the play uniform of most young wizards and witches. "I'm ready Grandpa."

Downstairs, Lily and James were already seated and talking with some animation. He could hear Melinda still banging around in the kitchen. Normally his wife allowed him to help in the kitchen, even expected him to provide at least one of their meals a day, but since Isobel had attached herself to his hip, she had taken over all kitchen duties, seemingly determined to stay as busy as possible. Once back under her parents' scrutiny, Isobel fidgeted with her hair and tugged at her shirt, obviously uncomfortable.

Bart wished he could banish nervousness and awkwardness with a wave of his wand, but after the calming draughts have worn off and the cheering charms have expired, the only way to become comfortable with someone was time and effort. "What are we having for lunch then? I smell capers. Do you like capers, poppet?"

"What's a caper?" Isobel asked with a concerned look on her face.

"It's a relish, a little salty but very tasty," James supplied with a kind smile. He patted the seat next to him and motioned Isobel over. For half a second she had forgotten to fidget but she averted her eyes and began worrying her hem again. She quickly took a seat across the table from her parents, a nice safe three feet away.

"So, you were going to find out when we could get Harry. Can we get him tonight?" Isobel had thought she wanted her parents' undivided attention but after four days of getting to know them, she just wanted the safe, comfortable relationship with her brother to buffer the undiluted scrutiny of so much family. "Please can we get him?"

"For your safety and his, we can't take him home before the spring, tentatively April," Lily said. "I'm sorry."

"April? That's months and months, almost half a year." Isobel felt her neck getting hot and her face flushing with frustration. "Don't you want him back? Don't you care enough to go get him?" Isobel didn't care if she sounded petulant or childish. They promised that they were going to bring Harry home too. They said soon, not in a few months. _They are criminals_, a voice in her head whispered insidiously, _neglectful people who hadn't even looked for their children_. Isobel abandoned her seat and ran from the room.

"Let me," Lily said. She gestured for Bart and James to stay as she went after her aggravated daughter. "Isobel, wait." Lily didn't catch up with her until they reached the second floor and her daughter's new bedroom. She caught the door, holding it closed so that Isobel couldn't fling it open and retreat inside.

"They didn't even change our names!" Isobel shouted, rounding on her mother. "You could have found us if you'd looked at all! You're a horrible mother!"

Lily stepped backwards, her heart thudding painfully at the angry accusations. She felt tears building, but choked them down. "We've made mistakes, but we love you and your brother. Now come downstairs and eat your lunch like a member of this family. And we will explain why we're having to wait so long."

"I want to go to bed. I'm not hungry." Isobel jerked open her now unblocked bedroom door and disappeared behind it. The lock's quiet click dismissed her mother succinctly.

Lily stared at the closed door. She knew over a dozen charms to unlock such a simple unwarded barrier, but she didn't dare use one. She couldn't face the fury of her nine year old again so soon. The child waxed hot and cold, from affection, to apprehension, to anger so quickly sometimes that Lily felt dizzy. A good parent shouldn't let her child throw a tantrum and scream at her mother and hide behind locked doors. Good parents also didn't misplace their children for years at a time.

A moment before she could sink to the floor and just sob, a hand was on her shoulder. Bartholomew fixed her with his kind grey eyes and guided her to a chair. "She doesn't mean it. She's confused and disappointed. James told me he hated me a couple of times before he finished growing up. This is all a huge adjustment for her, for all of us. Why don't we just leave her alone to cool off for now? She'll get hungry soon enough and we can address the tantrum with cooler heads all around."

"She loves you," Lily choked, unreasonably jealous of her father-in-law's easy, comfortable relationship with her daughter. "You don't scare her or make her angry. Why is it easy for her to love you?"

"I don't know." Bart patted Lily's back and let her lean her head on his shoulder. "Let's go down and eat our lunch while it's warm. Come on, before James and Melinda head up here to help too."

* * *

A simple compass spun lazily in the hand of one very road weary George Weasley. The rusty needle finally settled on a direction and George trudged off into the trees on another new trajectory. The compass was magically calibrated to lead him to a rendezvous with one Sirius Black, his next contact in the rebellion. Unfortunately, it had been calibrated by Moody to lead him on a circuitous route designed to throw off anyone who might be ridiculous enough to be following him.

It wasn't that George hadn't expected some paranoia from his mentor/master but a week's wandering was just excessive. If he weren't magically bound to Moody's command to follow the damn compass, he'd have given it up as a bad job days ago. George paused and frowned. Who was he kidding? He couldn't think of anything to do as an alternative to Moody's directions. He wanted to save his brother but had no way to even find him. At least once he was active in the rebellion he could request to work with people focused on opposing the Reapers.

An organization made exclusively of volunteers, surely the rebellion allowed new recruits some say in their area of focus. Stepping into a clearing, George froze-the compass in his robe pocket had begun to thrum gently.

Biting back the inclination to call a hello, George pulled out his wand and waited for something to happen. "Shit," he whispered. A rather large black dog materialized out of the shadows. For a moment he thought it was a wolf, but his muzzle was too round and his proportions weren't quite right for that. "Good dog."

The woods had become unnaturally still, and another animal emerged, this time a snowy spotted cougar. George could see flickers of other creatures nearby, a hawk in the trees, a scurrying squirrel, a ruffled owl. Animagi, he realized in a rush. Moody sent me to other Animagi.

"I'm George," he said. Hoping his instincts were correct, he waved. "If one of you is who I think you are, I have a letter here from Moody. I'm his latest apprentice."

Half-expecting the cougar to hiss then attack, George exhaled in relief when the black dog shimmered and stepped forward as a tall and graceful, dark-haired man. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you George Weasley, our newest recruit. I'm Sirius Black, your commanding officer. George, are you an Animagus?"

"Yes sir," George answered. "Moody taught me."

The animals and birds that he had only glimpsed came forward. They changed forms becoming men and women with a practiced ease that boggled George's mind. Changing still left him breathless and took a few minutes sometimes.

"Introductions all around then," Sirius said. "Edgar, why don't you get us started. He's your other officer, my number two."

"Edgar Lewis, squirrel Animagus." The young, slightly buck-toothed private shook George's hand warmly and pushed one of the girls forward.

"Dana Fields, barn owl Animagus." She waved and the procession continued until the lot of them had given him a name and an associated animal form.

Feeling overwhelmed, George tried to recite back some of the names and animal forms mentally, but it was hopeless, he was never going to remember half of them. Sirius came forward and surveyed him critically as though trying to gauge him.

"Ten galleons on him being a fox," one of the Animagi whose name had already slipped George's mind announced.

"Three galleons on some kind of reptile-we need a reptile,' Edgar said.

"Not a reptile, maybe a cat, a little ginger tabby," Shelia, the cougar, said. "I'll put a galleon on something feline."

Were they betting on what his Animagus form would be then? George wasn't sure if he should be offended or not. Some of their ideas were, bizarre. He was tempted to just announce his form and put a stop to the wagering, but he kept his mouth shut. Would they think less of his animal form? Skunks weren't exactly a well-loved mammal. Would he be of any use to them? They had smaller and larger Animagi, more intimidating Animagi, more agile and more versatile transformations at their disposal.

A smirk crossed Sirius's face and he scratched his chin. "As our new comrade hasn't offered to enlighten us, I have to wonder if it's an embarrassing form. You wouldn't happen to be a nutria?"

He wasn't embarrassed, George thought with a touch of indignation, his earlier insecurity forgotten. "I'm a skunk, little black and white carnivore with scent glands to be feared."

A smattering of polite applause and a few laughs greeted this announcement. Shelia laughed the loudest, "Finally, another carnivore."

"What now?" George asked. He hadn't expected the rebels to be overly regimented, but this pack of laughing shape-shifters were far more casual that he had anticipated. "Do we have orders?"

"We have rough guidelines. You need to be briefed and debriefed, but tonight we're welcoming you to our fraternity. Transform for us and let us see your other face." Sirius rested his hands on his hips and smiled encouragement at the very young man Moody had sent him. "Show us and let's get acquainted."

George nodded, determined not to fail this first test. He dropped to one knee and let a hand touch the ground. Transforming was easier when he started with a lower stance closer to the posture of his goal form. He pushed himself toward the shape and mind of his other self. Almost seamlessly, his perception shifted with his body, and after a few seconds' disorientation he stood on all four in front of his commander. They were all staring at him, some even applauded again. George had to bite back the instinct to spray in stressful situations. Somehow he didn't think Sirius' fraternity would appreciate a dose of skunk musk.

His new nose could smell their animal halves on them, and their transformations were not a surprise to him as they happened though he didn't remember the names that went to all the critters. The black dog howled and jogged into the woods; his pack, including their newest member, followed him.

* * *

Rising early on Saturday was typically a lonely start to the day, but Hermione didn't mind eating alone. The rolls of parchment, essays on every topic she cared to study, were better company than most of her classmates. She could read about people who understood the world, who agreed with many of her ideals, and who promised that change was possible if enough people could just start to understand.

Pushing open the doors to the Great Hall, Hermione wasn't surprised to find the normally sparsely populated tables completely devoid of wizarding life. After the Halloween party everyone was having a lie in. Sporting a superior, satisfied smile, she nabbed a plate of toast and eggs and thick red strawberry jam. Hermione ate her breakfast and read her essays, but it was harder to stay focused without the quiet chatter of other children annoying her.

In the cavernous silence, she couldn't eat her plentiful breakfast without thinking of home and her family and the breakfasts they would partake in. Her father would be roasting up something from the traps, maybe a rabbit or a couple of squirrels. Her aunt June always started the day with some boiled oats if she could get her hands on them, never sugared, never thickened with milk, but fresh, tender oats.

Hermione took another bite of jam slathered toast. She absolutely loved jam. It was a luxury she had never experienced before the wizards had taken her. Her father would undoubtedly like jam. She tried to imagine sharing the sweet treat with him while they crouched around their fire. But the image wouldn't come. Her father wouldn't want the wizard's food. How would he feel about his witchy daughter? He wouldn't even recognize her on the street in her wizard robes and her fleshed out cheeks. She didn't recognize herself in the mirror. The gaunt-faced Muggle she had always been no longer existed.

The words of the essay blurred behind a film of unshed tears but Hermione blinked them away. She had decided to become a witch, the best witch possible, a witch with enough power and influence to help her family in ways a Muggle girl never could. To do that, she had to read, to know, to be better than everyone else-in other words, she needed to study not cry through her meals.

Students' voices interrupted her silent morning, but they weren't coming from the dorms' route to the great hall. Instead they seemed to be entering from an alcove to a primary transportation circle. Hermione glared, recognizing the chatterboxes easily.

"I can't believe we did that," Draco said.

"It was foolish but exciting. How will we ever top it next Halloween?" Lisa asked.

"I don't know about you two, but I'm attending the boring school party next year. Living to graduate is high on my priority list," Harry said. "And could we keep it down. I'd rather not announce to any potential listeners what we were up to last night."

"Fine, fine, I'm going to get some sleep boys. See you later."

Harry and Draco entered the great hall without Lisa. Draco scanned the virtually empty room and scowled at Hermione. He nabbed a couple of pastries from the breakfast spread and bid Harry farewell, apparently unwilling to eat with the mad-Muggle as he called her when he thought she couldn't hear.

Harry joined her with a tired but happy smile. His robes were a mess, torn and mud streaked. "Morning Hermione, did you have a good Halloween?"

"I attended the obnoxious Halloween party, of course it wasn't good. What on Earth did you and those _two_ get up to? You look like you wrestled a troll." Hermione spat the word _two_ as though it tasted bitter.

"We went to see something and ended up breaking a couple of laws, so I can't tell you. I promised my partners in crime never to repeat what happened." Harry began shovelling some eggs and bacon down.

Hermione frowned and stared at her friend, inordinately disturbed by his statement. How could he be so casually reckless with his future? He was her first friend, the first of the army of wizards she intended to educate on what was wrong with the world. How dare he waste his chance to matter? Not only that, he had a sister to think about, to protect. "You are an ass. Whatever you did, it can't be worth risking your chance to finish school. Your little sister isn't going to get a chance to study at the class I level and you're willing to risk your chance on a stupid Halloween adventure? What would Isobel think if you got declassified? Would she be impressed with you, do you think?"

Harry's bright green eyes met hers, and he set his silverware down. "It was stupid, and I'm not proud of putting myself in that situation. But the law we broke, I would do it again if faced with the same choice." He nodded toward the stack of essays she had taken to breakfast. "Do you have any reading on werewolves? Not the stuff the empire publishes, I want to read something true."

Werewolves? Hermione's eyes widened and she bit on her lip to stop herself asking for more information. Last night had been a full moon. "Just one question, you didn't get bitten?"

Harry smiled and shook his head. "No, no one was bitten, but werewolves aren't what the empire says they are, and I want to know the truth."

Accepting that the Empire could and did lie was a large step toward understanding what was wrong with the world. Hermione's anger at Harry and his adventure evaporated in a flush of happiness. She knew he would understand eventually. "I can find you something. Give me a few days."


	25. Moving Up in the World

**Chapter 24 – Moving Up in the World**

A Dissection of Modern Colloquialisms

_as slippery as Slytherin adj. 1. The origin of this phrase is traced to the former rebel leader Salazar Slytherin who was able to turn his fortunes, ingratiating himself to the emperor, and achieve a third tier appointment along with all benefits including access to the elixir of life, a feat unrepeated in the centuries since he achieved it._

* * *

As awkward as the first night began, Nyt discovered that she mostly liked Remus' parents. They were soft-spoken and kind and seemed to be rather thrilled that their son was associating with a non-wolf girl. She tried not to dwell on the implied bigotry of that distinction, or the conflict it had to create in their relationship with their son. In their defence, most everyone feared werewolves as volatile animals, and as a group they did little to discourage that stereotype. She had to admire the determination that led them to keep their infected son and even seek to acquire an education for him. Most parents weren't nearly so bold.

So when Remus returned three days after leaving her behind, she wasn't nearly as ready to leave as she thought she would be.

He hadn't returned her smile or embraced his parents. Remus had been quiet to the point of rudeness to her and his family. Bruises and scratches covered him, though they had mostly started to heal. Had the visit to the pack been so unpleasant then? Had he found a solution to their problem? He didn't seem interested in discussing things one way or the other yet.

Well it was her life too and she deserved to know what he had discovered. She waited until his parents left them alone after dinner for a few moments and then she went fishing for her answers. "Remus, I'd like to know what the wolves' healers had to say. Can they help or not?"

As per the new usual, Remus didn't even look at her. He just shook his head and sighed deeply.

"Does that mean they can't help or you don't want to discuss it yet? This is my life too, and I deserve to know what was said. I don't deserve the silent treatment. Aren't we friends?" Remus looked at her, his eyes wide and vulnerable.

"We are friends. You're the best friend I've had in some time. The healer, she had a solution for our Vociferor problem. Lycanthropy gradually purges the cursed mark from Vociferor. I'll be clear of it in another month or two. Unfortunately, she didn't have another solution. She thought you should consider having a werewolf bite you if you really wanted to clear the curse." Remus smiled bitterly and a single tear leaked down his cheek. "Please don't ask me to bite you."

"Wow." Nyt's warm chestnut brown hair shifted, becoming wilder and darker as she purposefully mimicked a more feral appearance. What would it be like to be a werewolf? She hadn't been a law abiding member of society in years. She would be trading one curse for another if she sought the wolves' solution. "I don't want to go through the rest of my life without my magic, but becoming a werewolf isn't ideal either. I have a month before biting would even be possible. It will give me some time to consider my options."

_A month to find another option_, Remus thought. He knew exactly who to ask for help and he even had information to sell. "I'll find another answer. Give me a chance."

* * *

Walking into dark arts class with Draco by his side, Harry held his head high. He knew that he was travelling with more swagger since they had risked their lives to give a couple of werewolves a chance to evade the sheriff's monthly hunt. It wasn't the rebellious act or the adventure itself he felt bolstered by, rather the friendships it had cemented between himself, Draco, and Lisa that had ramped up his confidence. Alliances with the group home kids were easy, a given, but befriending the two most politically connected kids in his year was an accomplishment worthy of Salazar Slytherin himself.

He hadn't planned for things to go as they had or for them to bond so thoroughly, but he was pleased with the situation. Maybe Lisa was right about him a little, maybe he was a bit ambitious and inspired to excel. As long as he moved forward and upward with his eyes open, and Hermione was determined to keep him abreast of the truth behind the official party line, he couldn't see a problem with a few healthy aspirations.

Riddle nodded a greeting at them as they took their seats. The other members of the class had arrived already and their professor began speaking as soon as they were settled.

"You should all be quite proud to be in this class. I don't teach past the second year group. To remain in my whittled class is a sincere compliment from me. It's time you each learned why I kept you here."

Riddle's lips quirked into a handsome smirk that suited his aristocratic features. "I need an apprentice and all of you are potential candidates. Each of you has strengths that I value. After the Solstice break, I will whittle this class again. All of you should take the time to research apprenticeships and start to think if you would be willing to enter that type of bond with me. If you're unwilling or afraid, you can drop this class and join the rest of your year in Professor Noyce's Dark Arts class."

"Questions?" Riddle could practically see their little second year brains working furiously at the information he had given them. "We should begin then. Pair up."

Between Riddle drilling them up until the moment their class released and Professor Dover's strict feelings on tardiness, none of them got a chance to discuss Riddle's announcement until their Spell Casting lesson released them for the day. Hermione made it a point to attach herself to Harry before Draco or Lisa could snatch him away. She needed to talk before he wandered off to Quidditch practice. "Are you staying in Riddle's class?" she asked. "I'm staying in the class."

Harry nodded quickly. "Of course I'm staying. Whoever he chooses as his apprentice gets a silver armband for his or her trouble. Not staying would be insane."

"The man is volatile and unpredictable," Hermione stated, "but it would be so much easier to be taken seriously with that armband. People would really listen to our ideas."

"We can't both get the apprenticeship, but if I can't get it, I wouldn't mind it being you. You'd probably do more good than any of the rest of us with the influence and power of a silver armband," Harry said. "If you think about it, in our class we're the front runners. With Lisa's background it would be a waste. She's getting an armband without signing her life away. Would Riddle revoke the veto on Draco to take him as an apprentice? Would Draco even accept it if he offered?"

"Agreed on all points." Hermione grinned, already planning what she would do with the apprenticeship if she won it. Feeling positively magnanimous, she found herself bringing up a topic that was rarely broached voluntarily between them. "It's Quidditch-practice-Wednesday. I noticed you still go, but only when Draco and Lisa go. Did you lose your spot on the national team?"

Pleasantly surprised by Hermione feigning interest, Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "The coach wasn't happy, but they kept me as a backup for Herriman. I'm one injury away from starting. The talent pool is still too shallow for him to kick me down to the practice squads even if I only come to practice twice a week."

"Typical, everything always works out for you. It's sickening." Hermione split from Harry to head into her dormitory, her grin still firmly in place, belying her caustic words. "I'm winning this apprenticeship, otherwise you might get too cocky to live with."

"I guess we'll see about that," Harry replied. "You may be smarter, but I'm more likable."

"As if Riddle cares if you're likable or polite, though I have been pretty damn tame for weeks now. Can you even remember the last time I hit you or got into a fight with anyone?" She disappeared into the girl's dormitory, leaving a surprised and inordinately impressed boy behind. Hermione really was a fast learner. In another year or two, she would probably be able to rub elbows with the biggest snobs around without raising an eyebrow.

* * *

Every muscle in his body ached, but George didn't dare stop moving. His Commander had spent the last few days setting him progressively more challenging tasks. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was a long audition designed to make him quit, or at least admit that he couldn't handle what his commander was asking of him. George knew that it wasn't a game he was playing. The rebellion was an army engaged in an active war and it was only natural for his first commander to put him through his paces. A young soldier, not even of age, the man probably wanted an excuse to send him back to Moody for a couple of years. Well, he wasn't giving the man his excuse.

George dodged two streams of silently cast red spells, and shot a pair of stunners over his shoulder. The underbrush pulled at his robes but he kept running. Transforming would make his sprint easier, but also leave him wandless and defenceless. The charmed locket severing his connection to his brother bounced on its chain, every thump reminding him why he could not quit or be shunted backwards. Saving Fred was too important.

Spell light from three different directions had George diving and transforming. Forget offence, forget shields, now this was a sprint. Just in case any of his pursuers had considered making their own transformation, he let loose a hefty spray of eye-watering skunk musk that would torture sensitive animal noses.

He could see his goal, a tall sycamore tree, just a few leaps ahead of him. But a body bind found him. George bared his pointy teeth, unsure what would happen if he transformed while in the bind. He's going to send you back to Moody, George thought grimly. He forced the transformation to human through the bind but the spell only stretched and conformed to his new dimensions.

Sirius Black crouched beside him and placed his wand at George's throat. "If this were real, you'd be dead or worse."

"Hopefully you won't send me on too many suicide missions then, sir," George said. "You have to admit, my odds weren't great with the scenario you set, and I did get close." He smiled as though completely unconcerned by the prospect of suicide missions or death. He might be bound and helpless, but admitting weakness was not on the agenda today. "Are you through testing me yet, sir?"

"I hope we're through testing him," Edgar moaned. "_Scourgify_." He repeated the cleansing spell three times but seemed woefully unsatisfied with the smell of his robes. "If I get sprayed one more time, my nose may die. Is that specially enchanted skunk spray? We need to transfer him to torture and interrogation. His skills are wasted here."

"Edgar, take the rest of the team, put them through their paces. I need to have a conversation with Mr. Weasley." Sirius sighed, a frown on his face. He had been certain that the young man would have folded under his intense tests and orientation. He was just a teenager. Why had Moody sent him a kid? He released the body bind and gave George a hand up. "We need to discuss a few things. Moody sent enough information for us to know where and when to expect you, and that you qualified for inclusion in our unit. He didn't say why a fifteen year old kid was dead set on joining the war effort. I assume you have a reason."

George nodded, unsure of how much information his commander wanted. "Moody wouldn't have sent me if he didn't think I could take care of myself, sir. I don't deserve to be treated like a kid. The empire isn't treating my brother like a kid. I'm here for him."

"Is your brother imprisoned or dead?" Sirius asked. Tact had never been his forte, and he needed to understand George's situation so he could convince him to go home or at the least back to Moody for another couple of years. It was just too dangerous in the dog pack right now for a green rookie.

The redhead's ears blushed brightly, betraying his pique. "Not that it's relevant to my right to be here, but he's cursed. Now I need to find him and help him. The way I figure it, combat is my best shot at seeing him."

A cursed brother most easily found in combat? Sirius's frown deepened. What were the odds? "What kind of curse are you talking about?"

George touched his shirt where the charm locket rested. "I haven't seen it, him, with my own eyes, but he was made into a Reaper. If I could just find him, I could help him. He's still in there. We're twins, identical twins, and I know he's still there."

Sirius allowed himself a small smile. "Seems like the powers that be knew what they were doing, steering you toward me. Finding a permanent solution to the Reapers is my personal pet project."

"Are you talking about killing my brother?" Mentally, George answered his own question. What did he expect really? His brother had become the physical embodiment of the Emperor's will. The organization this man fought for existed to oppose the Empire. Of course he wanted to kill Fred.

Watching the kid in front of him wresting with the obvious answer to his pointless question, Sirius shrugged. "Killing Reapers doesn't work. I said permanent solution." Sirius cast an arm around George's shoulders and squeezed. He tried to imagine how it would feel to lose a brother to the empire and then have them made into a Reaper. He imagined James's face branded and sneering. George needed to try and save his brother, and Sirius could definitely empathize. "We're going to catch a Reaper and see if we can't figure out how they're made. Then maybe we can unmake them in a way that they can't be resurrected again. I just now decided to let you stay and help."

George remained tense under Sirius's arm. Moody had sent him exactly where he wanted to go, the part of the rebellion actively engaged in handling the Reapers. No one ever said they would be handling them with kid gloves. "I can stay and help? We're going to help them and maybe not kill them?" For what felt like the first time in months, George relaxed a degree.

"You shouldn't read so much into what I said. Our priority is ending the Reapers, not saving your brother. The goals may be mutually exclusive."

George shrugged off Sirius's arm and nodded. He remembered Dumbledore's confession, that he had killed his younger brother after the empire made him a Reaper. However many people told him that Fred was beyond salvation, he just couldn't accept that his brother was lost. "I don't believe he has to die, but I understand that you can't make me any promises."

"As long as we're clear." Sirius offered George his hand and after a brief hesitation they shook. "Welcome aboard kid."

* * *

As a mercenary for hire, Remus didn't often seek audiences with anyone. His employers came looking for him, and he responded in as timely a manner as his current job allowed. Today he pulled a slip of parchment, frayed despite the preservation charms on it, and used it to request a meeting with one of his regular clients, a man he trusted as much as he trusted anyone who didn't bear his curse. His carefully scratched words faded into the parchment and Remus was left to wait for a response.

An important man like Albus Dumbledore might not receive his message for a while and it might be even longer before he could meet with his werewolf associate safely. Remus didn't normally mind waiting, the truths of his life had taught him patience, but time felt short. He only had a month before Nyt might ask him to help her and he had to have another solution before then.

A bright, tinkling laugh drifted through his bedroom door, Nyt's laugh. She had struck up a quick, easy friendship with his parents. They were so pleased that he was travelling with a girl who was a friend and lacked his furry problem. His mother had practically offered to lend him her old engagement ring if he needed it. He hadn't been able to make her understand that he and Nyt didn't have that type of relationship. Sometimes men and women were just friends.

What would they think if he bit her, his friend? In over thirty years of his curse, he had never spread the condition, never bit another person. It was a source of personal pride and allowed him some small measure of peace. He wouldn't bite her, better to live without using magic than to become a werewolf. Surely Nyt could see that. After a month's deliberation she would reach that obvious conclusion.

If Albus Dumbledore could remove the mark of Vociferor, there didn't need to be a choice.

A messy, slanted scrawl appeared on Remus's parchment, lingered for a few seconds then faded away.

_Come now, by floo, and we will discuss your offer. _

_A._

Mentally preparing himself to negotiate, he cast a handful of Floo powder into his room's fireplace. His father had prepared the hearth at his son's request that morning splicing a temporary connection to the public network. For someone who knew how and wasn't cursed by Vociferor, it wasn't so hard to manage temporary connections. "Albus Dumbledore's office."

Remus emerged into the luxury of second tier life with a graceful double step. He brushed off a bit of clinging soot and nodded to the elderly man across the room.

"Remus, come in, please have a seat. I have to say, your message intrigued me."

Remus crossed the room to stand in front of the man's cluttered desk but silently declined to sit. He curled his hands around the back of the cushioned chair he had been offered, and forced himself to smile as though everything didn't depend on this negotiation. "I have information from one of your spies. He is now deceased." On another day, in another situation, the information he held might have been sold for a significant sum. Today he just hoped Albus could and would help Nyt for him.

"As your note said. What information were you given and by whom?" Albus leaned forward in his chair. "Or would you prefer to negotiate price a bit before going into more detail?"

"Negotiation won't be necessary. The price is already set. I took a job breaking a man out of Vociferor. Along the way, I ran into an old friend, Severus Snape. I can't tell you the information he wanted you to have. He insisted on writing it into a charm and concealing it in my mind beyond my reach. He didn't trust a werewolf to bring the information to you, so he made sure you would be the only one who could retrieve it."

"Severus?" Albus closed his eyes, digesting the confirmation of his friend and best placed spy's demise. "Name your price. You know I'll pay it."

Remus prayed that Albus could meet his price. "I need you to remove the mark of Vociferor from a witch who helped with the break out from the Killing Fields. It summons their hounds if the bearer uses magic. Remove the mark and the information is yours."

Already shaking his head, Albus rose. "Such marks can't be removed, Remus. They are a type of curse that can't be destroyed or even mitigated to my knowledge. You should know better than most, certain curses must be lived with."

"I suggest you find a way if you want to know your spy's dying declaration. It's my price." Remus crossed his arms over his chest, determined to make Albus change his mind. Nyt needed a solution, damn the impossibility argument. Nothing was impossible. There were just problems that didn't yet have solutions. "You have to try."

Albus stepped around his desk, his blue eyes boring into the desperate wolf's. "Forgive me, but I don't." His wand was in his hand, and in an instant, Remus was bound in conjured ropes. "You'll receive a fair price. I've always been fair with you, Remus."

"No, you will pay my price," Remus said, knowing full well that he couldn't stop Albus from taking the information. "I trusted you."

"Severus was placed with Mabel Turpin, working as close to the emperor as anyone not already inducted to the Third Tier. The information you hold could potentially change the world for the better. As distasteful as I find this, your trust is not worth the fate of the world." Albus touched his wand to the red-faced man's temple; gently, he coaxed the charmed information, the most delicate of silver threads, free.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I suffered a laptop death since my last posting. Didn't lose all the chapters to my WIPs but lost some info and just threw my hands up and stopped writing for a while. I've got my groove back a bit and started writing again. Chapter 28, my current writing location, is borderline melodramatic and that never flows well for me. I need to tie some things together. Finishing the current arc is a goal.

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	26. I Guess There Aren't Any Rainbows Left

**Chapter 25 - I Guess There Aren't Any Rainbows Left**

**History of the World Volume XXIV Chapter 10 The Rule of Turpin - Agriculture**

_Each tier of society provides valuable contributions to the empire. While wizards focus on more magically significant herbilogical pursuits, Muggles labour to produce the grains, fruits, and vegetables that fill the larders of our society. Inevitably wizards must oversee these activities as Muggles cannot own land. Because they work closely with wizards, farming has long been considered the most respected profession for a Muggle to achieve. In the past, wizard overseers taught basic maths and reading to their tenants. That policy changed following the pitched rebellion based out of France in the thirteenth century. Educated Muggle farmers were key supporters of the seditionists. Education in the wrong hands is poison, turning mens' heads and filling them with unattainable aspirations._

_Since this time, actively teaching writing or maths is taboo in the farming profession, though a few overseers still maintain the practice._

* * *

A silver ribbon danced through the air, looping and twisting. As it passed in front of the wand directing its course, a hoarse, barely intelligible voice emerged. Albus allowed the recorded recitation to cycle over and over, listening to the last words of his dead spy as he mentally digested the information it relayed.

"I've spent the last several months working on a complex probability matrix with Mabel Turpin. Almost until the end, I didn't know what we were filtering, but I impressed her with my insight and creative manipulation of the numbers. She eventually told me everything. Her project is designed to perpetually circumvent a prophecy. The emperor's demise was foretold and he has already assembled the men and women predicted to do him in. He keeps them alive and close; they're his pets, the Reapers.

"The location in which the prophecy chooses champions shifts geographically over time. Locating the prophecy's chosen champions is an intricate probability manipulation. Using scrying and divination stones, Mabel and her associates move large numbers of young Muggleborns and Half-bloods to the location where choosing has shifted. The prophecy likes Muggleborns and Half-bloods. In the end, we're all human and it plays out in the choosing. No witch or wizard is truly exempt though some are more likely depending on heritage, age, and geographic location. The exact phrasing of the prophecy..."

Before the voice could recite the prophecy again, Albus twitched his wand and the recording stopped, the circle of silver frozen from its languid twirling.

A man who lived his life on the razor's edge had died, tortured in the Emperor's killing fields. With his death, Severus had delivered Albus a wealth of invaluable information. While a part of him grieved for the life lost, his mind already whirled with the possibilities of a partially executed prophecy and decades old grievances that he had never completely recovered from.

His baby brother hadn't just been chosen to become a Reaper, first he was chosen by a prophecy. Aberforth, his wild, trouble-maker sibling, had been meant for greater things. How many exceptional young men and women had been chosen by prophecy only to be destroyed and perverted before getting the chance to reach their potential?

Tears shimmering unshed in his blue eyes, Albus moved the silver thread of recording forward to the last few seconds and reactivated the playback.

"We both knew this was going to kill me eventually, but it will mean something. I'm giving you everything you need to end this dictatorship, to achieve your goal. Don't forget your promise. You owe me old man."

Albus nodded absently before carefully storing the silver string of magic in a glass vial and sealing it with a simple cork stopper. "I won't forget, Severus."

* * *

Wearing a set of navy blue Quidditch robes, Harry dropped onto a bench next to the other backup players. Unlike him, his teammates spent every day drilling their skills together and in shifts with the actual starters. His more sporadic attendance could be tolerated only because Seekers were in short supply and the position didn't require a lot of coordination with the other players. His teammates didn't give him a hard time over his part-time status, though they didn't mind taking the Mickey over him being the youngest, smallest player on the pitch.

A burly black-haired man, Joseph, one of the reserve Beaters, plopped down next to him and punched Harry playfully on the shoulder. "Hey squirt, you excited about the game this weekend? You might get to play. The Yanks are a physical team. They crashed out four of the Australian players in their last match."

Excited didn't quite encompass the spectrum of terror, joy, and fervour he felt at that prospect, but Harry simply nodded. "Just hope I don't make a fool of myself if they put me in."

"No worries, kid, you're talented and with exceptional Beaters like myself watching your back, you'll be fine." Joseph grinned, exposing a missing front tooth. He had lost it in his first professional game and declined having it replaced. They'd lost the game and old Beater superstition said it was unlucky to take teeth back from a defeat.

Harry was quite glad there wasn't any Seeker lore that required he end up missing teeth or other body parts. "You know, technically, if I do end up in the game, you'll probably still be warming the bench and I'll have to depend on those blokes who've been doing their best to knock me off my broom to keep me on it. What if they get confused?"

Joseph laughed and shrugged. "You guys will be wearing the same colours. That might help."

"Listen up ladies and gentlemen!" One of the assistant coaches held a hand up commanding silence from the blue clad reserve players. "Janice is handing out packets of player tickets to the game this weekend. You each have ten seats to offer your friends and family. No, you can't have extras. No, I do not care what you do with the ones you have. Sell them, eat them, give them to a teammate with fifteen siblings, they're yours. Practice is suspended for the rest of the week. No sense being tired for the game. I will see the lot of you Saturday no later than twelve hundred hours. Good practice guys."

Harry accepted his envelope filled with its prize of valuable family passes. He mentally tallied the people he wanted to give tickets to. Ron, Draco, and Lisa were easy; they liked Quidditch and they were his friends. Hermione was a friend but didn't much appreciate wizarding sports in general. Mentally calculating the odds she would get angry over receiving a ticket, Harry decided to just give her one and hope it didn't rub her the wrong way. His only family, Isobel, should get one, but the logistics of that might trip him up.

The Headmistress had strongly encouraged him to come to her when he needed to see his little sister after the incident at Christmas. He would just have to petition Professor McGonagall and maybe she could work it out. If the stars aligned and he made his world Quidditch debut, he wanted his sister there. McGonagall would understand, hopefully.

Assuming everything worked out, he would be left with five tickets to barter or outright sell. It was a rich haul for a nobody with nothing to his name. He might actually get to buy his sister a Solstice present this year, instead of hoping someone left another toy as charity.

A quick shower followed by a trip through the main transportation circle, and Harry was back to school. He was a few hours later than usual, but it had been the last practice before a big game. He breezed into an almost deserted great hall for dinner. In his age group, only Neville remained. Harry piled up a heaping helping of fish and half dozen rolls before joining him. "Hey, how are you?" Harry asked politely.

Neville looked up from the book he was reading and shrugged. "I'm fine. Did you have a good practice, Harry?"

"It was a bit more intense than usual. We have a big game this weekend. I'll probably be watching from a comfy seat on the bench, but it's still exciting. Will you be attending?" Harry asked with hopes of selling one of his extra tickets. For Neville he wouldn't even charge much.

"My mum got tickets ages ago, fifth box." Neville closed his book and set it aside. "Do you know who the Westies are starting? Is Franklin back from injury yet? I heard that the starting Seeker is only fifteen. What's his name?"

"Nah, Boise is still chasing for Franklin and the seeker is Herriman, Louise Herriman. She's sixteen and quite good."

"Really? It'll be her debut. I hope we win." Neville's smile was genuine and wide.

"Me too." Harry leaned across the table. "So I have a couple of extra tickets for the game. Do you know of anyone who might want to buy them?"

* * *

The contents of a cauldron boiled, thick white potion plopping as bubbles of gas escaped the concoction. Lilly scooped up a handful of crushed lotus roots and stirred them in. The Potion's colour shifted to pink and the mixture thinned. "Do you have the Orange leaves chopped?" From her perch on a nearby stool, Isobel, pushed a pile of roughly chopped aromatic leaves across the table. Her hair tied back in pigtails, she wore a simple apron and protective dragonhide gloves. Even though the potion she was helping her mother with required no actual caustic ingredients, Lily had explained that wearing your protective gear was a good habit and learning to handle a knife in thick gloves was better practiced on inert ingredients than explosive ones.

Isobel hadn't been enthusiastic to be included in her mother's brewing, but eventually accepted the activity as a necessary if awkward event. Lily examined the leaves critically and used her own knife to even the chop until the leaves were fine, nearly perfect slivers. "It's important to chop ingredients uniformly when brewing," she explained. "If they go in as different sizes they won't absorb equally and it can make your potion less stable. Had you started brewing yet? I think they started us brewing around your age when I was at the group home."

"Brewing wasn't required, and I didn't go." She frowned at her mother. "Why were you raised at the group home? Did your family lose you too?"

Lily hated the way Isobel always referred to her abduction as though her parents had carelessly misplaced a trunk at the train station. "I was taken from my family too, but my family were all Muggles. They technically gave me up. My parents knew what I was and turned me over to the empire when I was four. They wanted me to have a better life."

"The empire takes magical kids from unacceptable situations all the time. I mean, if you and Dad hadn't been what you are, they wouldn't have taken me and Harry away either." Isobel knew she was being difficult, accusatory and maybe not quite fair to her mother but she couldn't help herself. "Your parents wanted you to have a better life, but you didn't care what kind of life me and Harry had."

"That isn't true, Isobel." Lily didn't raise her voice at the obvious goading or let her daughter's now familiar tirade get under her skin. Her daughter had been indoctrinated almost from birth to believe in the empire and she wasn't going to understand the complexity of the situation immediately, or maybe even any time soon. "Your father and I love you and your brother more than anything in the world. We wanted to give you the chance to live in a free society—a rebellion is always for the children, for the future."

"Society seems to be doing fine to me." Isobel stripped off her dragonhide gloves and jumped down off her stool. "I bet Grandpa Bart is in his studio. Can I go watch him paint?"

"No, this is a lesson and you're staying for the entire potion. Brewing is not optional in this house. Don't make me use a sticking charm to put you on that stool." Lily pulled out a new ingredient, slimy and gray-green. "Do you know how to break down a frog carcass?"

Rolling her eyes, Isobel gloved back up and remounted her stool. "No, go ahead and show me."

With practiced ease, Lily used her silver knife to remove the frog's eyes, spleen, and other important viscera. "We'll be using the spleens, and pickling the rest for use later. You take the others apart while I get the pickling salts ready. Do you know why we use a silver knife?"

"Silver is pure?" Isobel answered uncertainly.

"Silver purifies," Lily clarified. "Any residual magic that might be lurking in the items is flushed out so that nothing unexpected happens when you combine the ingredients." Lily smiled and guided her daughter's knife through the final cut on her first frog. "Very well done."

"Will you be my teacher now? Since everyone thinks I'm dead, I can't go to school. I can't even go outside." Isobel attacked the next frog, thinking about her friends that she would never get to see again.

"You'll go to school, just not here. We're going to move far away once we have Harry back. Then you and Harry will both go to school. We're going to be a family. So, where do you think we should relocate? Australia? Japan? France?"

"Not Japan. I don't want to learn a new language." Isobel made a disgusted face as some frog innards stuck to her glove. She delicately wiped it away. "I have some good friends that I'm never going to see again, but starting over doesn't sound completely terrible either. I'll have my brother and that's the most important thing, but I wouldn't count on dearest Harry feeling the same." Isobel popped the eyes off a frog and slit its cold white belly. "He is going to be so angry at you when you take him away from school. Harry loves school and his friends and Quidditch. Did you know he was designated number one in his class or that he plays as Seeker? He made so many friends at school that between camp and birthday parties, I barely saw him last summer."

Focused on her task, Isobel didn't see her mother's reaction to her words. Lily first smiled with pride at her son's accomplishments and then frowned, worried that her daughter was right. It sounded like everything was going well for Harry. How happy would he be to have his whole life redirected? Isobel was angry with the changes in her life at least half the time and she hadn't had the chance to achieve nearly so much. "It will be an adjustment, but family is the most important thing."

"Right, whatever you say," Isobel snorted. "I don't want to move away from Grandpa Bart and Grandma. They're family too. It isn't fair. Just because you and Dad had to be criminals, me and Harry can't have anything we want."

"Isobel Potter, you will stop using that tone with me."

Isobel almost dropped her knife, her mother's firm words so startled her. And she'd called her Potter not Green. Isobel couldn't remember hearing her true name spoken aloud and strung together. She had definitely never heard it spoken as a scold. Her mother cupped her chin, gently lifting her face until their eyes met.

"I love you. We aren't taking you away from your grandparents. You can visit them every day if you want to." Lily let go of her daughter's face, and she averted her eyes almost immediately. "I know it isn't easy to imagine, but some of the things you've been taught aren't true. Just try to have an open mind and I'll show you the other side of the propaganda. Then maybe you'll understand how we could become criminals as you put it. Will you at least try?"

"Okay," Isobel whispered. "I'll try."

"You finish those frogs. I'm going to get your homework assignment." Lilly strode out of the kitchen and up to the Potter's library. She leafed through the section stacked with Melinda's essays until she found the one she wanted Isobel to start with. If her daughter had found it in her to bond with and trust her grandparents, maybe she would be able to accept her parents' political views and choices when espoused by one of those grandparents.

* * *

The long climb to the top of the east tower let Harry mentally practice his proposal to McGonagall. He just needed to focus on how easy and obvious the whole situation was. He had the tickets; finding someone to escort his sister should be easy with the incentive of getting to watch the game. Whoever ended up babysitting her should practically be paying him for the ticket, really. It was a privilege, a steal.

The head's imposing mahogany office door loomed, but Harry marshalled his courage and knocked firmly.

"Come in." The door opened on its own in response to the Scottish woman's clear invitation.

Harry felt utterly self conscious standing in front of the stern Headmistress, but she had seemed sympathetic last solstice when he and Hermione had been caught out of bounds. She had told him to come to her instead of plotting to see his sister on his own. "Headmistress, I need your help. There is a Quidditch game this weekend. I know I'm only a reserve player and I probably won't be flying, but I have ten tickets to the game and having my sister there would be amazing. If I give Isobel a ticket and send a ticket for whoever needs to supervise her, everyone should be covered. Can you help get her to the game?"

Minerva sat up straighter, looking down her nose at the nervous, hopeful child. "I'm sorry Mr. Green, but it won't be possible to get your little sister to the Quidditch match this weekend. Beyond needing a chaperone there are other issues."

"But I have an extra ticket for whoever would be willing to chaperone her. Surely some adult at the home would be willing to sit through a Quidditch game with my sister. It isn't considered torture in most circles. These tickets are valuable."

"If your request were possible, it would be granted. We have policies for a reason. Now, I'm sure you have some homework to do. My mind isn't going to change." Minerva levelled the visibly offended twelve year old with her most daunting glare and held it until he turned away and her door snapped shut behind him.

Minerva gently massaged her temples, trying to relieve the knot of tension behind her eyes. Lying to the poor boy had been harder than anticipated. He presented his request in a timely, polite manner. He made his case logically and earnestly. Any other day she would have politely escorted the child's sister herself, but Harry's sister wasn't in the group home or even alive according to the empire's records. Albus had informed her of the situation with the Green/Potter siblings and tasked her to protect Harry from discovering his sister's apparent death until they could be properly reunited.

Minerva took out a quill and began scratching a note in neat, even script. He might not get to know about it today, but a boy deserved to have his family at his first Quidditch game, and she could at least try to make that happen.

* * *

"Seriously?" Draco looked up from his spell crafting homework to where Harry was sprawled across his bed. His friend's head hung off the end so that his glasses threatened to surrender to gravity and fall off his face. "She denied the request because it isn't standard policy?"

"I wouldn't be so bothered, but the woman told me to come to her if I had a 'reasonable' need for access to my sister almost a year ago. I haven't made a single request of anyone in that time. What were her words exactly? 'Don't take matters into your own hands Mr. Green. Don't go outside the system when we're here to help you Mr. Green.' Load of bollocks."

Draco nodded. "So you and this sister are close?"

"She's my sister," Harry said with an ineloquent shrug. "I want her there."

Draco mulled the situation for a few moments, tempted to just let the headmistress's ruling stand, but Harry had given him a ticket to the upcoming game, something his father hadn't bothered to do. "If she isn't too annoying and you want me to, she could sit with me and Lisa and we'd make sure she stayed safe."

"You would. Really?" Harry rolled into a sitting position. His hair stuck straight up, though his glasses noted the change in direction and settled back on the tip of his nose. "Maybe we could break her out for the day?"

"Or if we didn't want to land a month's detentions, I could write my father. If I phrase the request correctly, he'll borrow her for us. I'd like to see the headmistress say anything to the sheriff for defying standard protocol." Draco smirked superiorly. "If he thinks Lisa Turpin wants your sister at that game, he'll get her there. Politics."

Harry frowned. He couldn't think of Draco's father without remembering Halloween and the werewolf hunt they had disrupted. "Your dad is kind of important and a little scary. Are you sure we should be bothering him?"

"Don't you trust me?" Draco ruffled Harry's insane hair on his way to grab some parchment for the letter to his father.

* * *

Isobel Potter couldn't seem to get her footing in the minefield of her life. Her new home and new family were nice enough. They fed her and gave her comfortable clothes and posh toys. She even had her own room. Her mother taught her things and her grandfather let her paint with him almost every day. Her father wasn't home as much, but he never missed dinner.

She ought to be blissfully happy. If it weren't for the hiding and the fact that her parents were terrorists, life would be very nearly perfect. Isobel felt ashamed almost immediately for her mental choice of label. Her parents called themselves Rebels, and they had the literature to explain their point of view. She just couldn't quite buy it all.

The world wasn't a terrible place really. Why did everything need to change?

Instead of dwelling on the oddness of her family, she tried to focus on the homework her mother had set, a stack of essays to read and Latin conjugations. It was terribly confusing. She had to remind herself that she'd envied the other kids their Latin lessons when she got dropped from the real classes. Her mother had no idea Isobel wasn't gifted enough for real school and was teaching her as if she were capable of learning it all.

She could always tell Lily about her educational demotion earlier in the year, but the thought made her cheeks burn with shame. She had barely been able to bear Harry finding out and she felt secure in his love.

Defective verbs, Isobel stared at the word and willed it to make more sense to her.

Across the room, Lily dutifully sipped the medicinal potion that kept her curse in check. Its sickly sweet flavour left her tongue numb and her teeth unpleasantly slick. Four cauldrons rested on her mother in law's ornate sideboard, their contents cooling.

Much like her daughter, Lily felt a bit lost in her own life. Being a mother hadn't seemed nearly so complicated before the abduction. She loved her children absolutely and unconditionally; they had returned that love. Now she wasn't sure what Isobel felt for her besides suspicion and occasional bursts of anger. Harry still didn't know his family existed.

Lily didn't blame her daughter for her anger and angst. There were too many other people to blame for their strained relationship. Lily swirled the milky potion in its plain crystal flask and pocketed the remainder. If she were being honest with herself, as much as she hated the empire and Oscasia and Peter Pettigrew, no one was more to blame for the problems in her family than Lily herself. She was responsible for dragging James into the rebellion, for putting them in a situation that made them targets. After all the fighting and sacrifice, what had they really accomplished—a few small victories that barely inconvenienced the empire?

Nothing changed.

Nothing was ever going to change.

They had been naive to think any of it mattered.

The only really important thing was family and protecting each other from the rest of the world. Lily understood that now; her priorities were straight. She wondered if Melinda would bother with 'I told you so' when she confessed her epiphany.

The unmistakable sound of parchment crumpling brought Lily back to the moment and she frowned at the frustrated set of her daughter's face. "How are those conjugations coming?" Lily asked. When Isobel didn't respond, Lily took a seat next to her and unfolded the knot of paper. Isobel had written defective verbs across the top and hadn't added another word. "I can explain them again if you like. Maybe it would be easier if you told me where you were in class, and then we could review and go from there?"

Isobel fidgeted and bit her lip, knowing she had to admit the truth now. "I don't know any Latin. They didn't let me take the real classes last year when Latin started. I'm not a powerful witch. Professor Umbridge called us the lower third of the bell curve, whatever that means. So we don't need to study all this. I'm going to end up learning a trade or something. You're wasting your time trying to teach me."

Though she had spoken in a perfectly calm, light tone, Lily could hear the brittle undertone of a girl ready to cry at the least provocation. "Don't let them tell you what you are. Did you read any of the articles I gave you yet? Read the one on Educational Darwinism. The difference between the bottom third and the top third of Professor Umbridge's bell curve is miniscule. It's an excuse to control the distribution of education. Without education, we're weak and easier to control. You are as capable as anyone else. Forget the stupid curve."

Isobel opened her mouth to argue that she was less capable. Hadn't her mum watched her struggle and fail all morning? But Lily looked so sure, so determined. "I'll try my hardest, if you think I can learn it."

"Of course you can learn it. It will be easier when I start at the beginning, instead of throwing you in over your head. Do you know why we bother to learn Latin or any ancient language?" Lily flipped the Latin text back to the first chapter and left it open between them.

"Words of power are old words," Isobel replied, parroting a phrase she'd heard from her brother and other older kids.

"Very well said." Lilly gestured for Isobel to read along with her. "Let's build some vocabulary."

* * *

While Lily worked diligently to build a relationship with her daughter, James sloughed through his own mission. The Reapers were a menace and a bloody complicated mystery. Sirius and his animagi were actively attempting to capture a Reaper while James used every contact at his disposal to find information on the enforcers. Unfortunately, the only substantive literature on the group dissected their proclivities without explaining what they were. Sirius's plan to capture a Reaper and pick apart the enchantments on it at first blush seemed a bit risky, but how else were they supposed to destroy them? You had to understand your enemy before you could properly fight them.

Leaving Lily cursed was a last resort and destroying the creature that cursed her might just cure her.

Stacking a final book on the pile he had selected from the regional records archive, James hefted his finds onto a table to work. Reapers were regular old people before their transformation, and in accordance with Sirius's plan, James was building dossiers on the six of them.

Before he'd read three lines of text on the newest Reaper, one Cedric Diggory, an official-looking brown owl swooped in and presented a letter for removal. James gently relieved the owl of its missive and ripped open the envelope. A letter and three Quidditch tickets fell out. Not immediately recognizing the handwriting, he glanced ahead to the signature, Minerva McGonagall. He read through the letter quickly, his nostalgic smile blossoming into one of real glee. Casting a quick reshelving charm at the books he had only just acquired, James made haste for the nearest floo.

Those dossiers would have to wait another day—his news would not keep.

**Author's Note:**

This section of chapters is an inevitable train wreck. You can see the mess coming and you wait for someone to pull an emergency break, but they don't and then the wreck happens and you have to see what will survive and with what wounds.


	27. The Pride Before

**Chapter 26 – The Pride Before**

**Excerpt from Founding Charter Antarctic Quidditch Coalition – Author Unknown**

_Brothers and sisters of the broom, we join in our love of this game. Keeper, Seeker, Chaser, Beater-unified of purpose, we seek the sky together and we will fly forever._

* * *

The stadium's locker room smelled of leather and liniment; each player had a designated station with their uniform, pads, and other equipment. A polished bronze tag gleamed with each player's name.

Harry found his locker next to the first string seeker, Louise. She was already geared up, brown hair pulled back in a tight plait. The crimson and blue robes fit her well. She looked like a professional Quidditch player. She raised her hand to him and smiled. "Hey Harry. Excited?"

Not trusting his voice, Harry nodded and pulled the privacy curtain around his changing area. He folded his glasses and placed them in the provided case. Carefully, almost reverently he put on each part of the uniform. Even if he didn't fly today, he was dressing out for Western Europe. It had to be the biggest honour in his life to date. Harry took a long look at himself in the small mirror at the back of his locker and smiled. Sure he was a bit small, but he looked the part of a professional Quidditch player aside from that.

He pushed the privacy curtain aside and joined Louise sitting and waiting while his teammates completed their own pregame rituals. She clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. "Looking good there."

"You too," Harry returned with a faint blush. He had been flying against her for almost as long as he'd been in the school's Quidditch system and though she was four years older, they had entered the national squad at the same time. If he hadn't resisted the program's attempt to make him a full time Quidditch player, they would have been vying for the starting position. As things stood, they'd been able to make friends easily without the intense rivalry that should have hampered them.

Coach Otto entered the room, his stiff-legged gait a testament to how badly Quidditch injuries could go wrong. Two assistant coaches rolled in a chalk board covered in a complex diagram of x's and o's. Coach waited a long moment for the stragglers to take a seat and pay attention. "A few points to remember about our opponents today." He tapped the board and the diagram began to move, the x's flying at the o's.

He spoke quietly and fervently about penalties and scoring drives and protecting vulnerable players. Harry couldn't help noticing that the coach was staring at his two extremely young Seekers when discussing that last bit. "These North American players are not afraid to foul if they think it will put one of my starters on the sidelines. Defence will win this. Protect each other."

* * *

Lily stared at the ticket her husband had presented her, flabbergasted at its implications. When Isobel claimed Harry was a Seeker, she had assumed he was playing in the lower training league like his father had at his age, but her twelve year old son was reserve Seeker for the Westies. He might be flying in his first professional match in a matter of hours. Lily didn't protest as James charmed their overcoats and scarves Westie red and blue, or when he expertly transfigured Isobel's hair and nose so she couldn't be easily recognized. Lily tried to smile but the attempt just made her face ache.

Harry would hate them when they took him away from his life, Lily thought despondently. How could James scuttle about like this was a good thing? Didn't he realize what this meant for their broken family? Isobel barely tolerated them and she had been educationally demoted with few prospects for the future. What would stop Harry from running away from his flawed family to return to his perfect life?

"Love, smile—this is going to be fun," James said, unable to contain his enthusiasm. "Our boy is a Quidditch prodigy. Are you okay?" He cupped her face, genuinely confused that Lily wasn't excited for a chance to see her son, even if it was from a distance.

"Just nervous I guess," Lily said, finally managing a weak smile.

Misinterpreting her melancholy, he hugged her close and tried to reassure her. "It's only a few short months now and he'll be home."

Apparently unable to stand all the mushiness, Isobel sighed loudly. Arms akimbo, she flipped her temporarily blond hair. "We're going to be late."

"Hear that?" James asked. "We're going to be late to see our son's debut."

Lily rolled her eyes, unable to continue resisting James' giddy excitement. She could worry tomorrow. "Merlin forbid we're late for that. You did read the part about him being the reserve Seeker?"

* * *

"I can't believe this spectacle." Hermione took her place next to Ron, just another witch in a sea of thousands gathered together to drink, party, and watch their favourite sport. She had little interest in Quidditch, but hadn't been able to think of a polite way out of attending when Harry gave her a ticket, and she was trying to curb her less couth tendencies. Well, attending didn't mean she had to enjoy herself. Instead of trying to learn the rules of the game, she mentally calculated the waste around her. The resources that went into building and staffing a stadium like this could clothe, house, and feed half the European Muggle population for a year. Frivolity and excess while millions struggled to survive; Hermione had to bite her lip hard to keep from ranting at Ron.

"Isn't it amazing? These are the best seats I've ever had," Ron said, oblivious to the disdain Hermione's only comment had dripped with. "If we win this game, we go on to play the South Asiatic Fliers in the next international round. If we lose, we have to face the crazy cult team in Antarctica and they're unbeatable."

"Go team," Hermione cheered without enthusiasm.

"Do you want a beverage? I'm getting a Butterbeer and maybe some pasties." Ron took Hermione's silence as the dismissal it was and departed for the nearest concession stand.

Hermione watched the pregame antics of pretty witches in tight skimpy uniforms flying in precise patterns on fast broomsticks. She smirked at the double entendre her mind supplied for the display. "How demeaning can you get?" she muttered.

Ron returned with snacks for two, despite her lack of encouragement. He placed Hermione's share in front of her. "Try the Butterbeer if nothing else. It's the best."

"I didn't want any snacks," Hermione complained petulantly, but she sipped the beverage rather than waste it. An effervescent bubble of creamy sweetness filled her mouth and she took another longer drink. "It is good."

"Told you." Ron munched happily on a pumpkin pasty and swigged at his Butterbeer. "This is going to be great." A booming voice announced the teams' starting line-ups and the flyers took up their respective positions. The snitch was released and the Quaffle tossed.

Hermione didn't complain as Ron explained the intricacies of penalties and scoring. Despite herself, she found the action impossible to look away from. The North American squad was quick to foul, managing to ground out two of the Chasers after only twenty minutes of play. "They're complete thugs," Hermione hissed after the second injury.

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "At this rate, Harry will get to play."

"Great, then they can maim him too. This game is entirely too dangerous." Hermione winced as a Bludger slammed into another Westie.

"Foul!" Ron howled. "Did you see how that Beater grabbed her broom so she couldn't dodge? That's Squashing."

"Appropriately named. She's going out of the game." Hermione gripped the railing until her fingers ached. The Westies took a penalty shot and retained possession of the Quaffle.

"That was Herriman, our Seeker. Harry will have to go in. Look at him. He's so little," Ron said. "Oh I hope he finds the Snitch fast. They're killing us."

Eight seats over (as far from Hermione and Ron as they could get and still be in the section their seats designated) Draco and Lisa huddled together, expressing a similar sentiment. "He looks tiny compared to the other players. Maybe that will help him dodging," Draco speculated.

"Harry will be fine," Lisa smirked. "He's a survivor and a winner."

Draco snorted, "But will he still have all his original teeth?"

"Maybe? I suppose it's just as well that your dad never showed up with Harry's sister. This game might have traumatized her."

* * *

Coach Vasco cursed violently in Portugese and threw a copy of their playbook at the nearest referee. He stalked over to Harry, his tiny, part-time, twelve year old Seeker. "Green you're going in. As soon as we get Herriman revived we'll take you back out. Don't get killed, alright."

"Yes sir." His heart beating so fast it felt like it might escape his chest, Harry stepped out onto the launching platform. He could see Herriman to the side being worked on, blood congealed in the still tight plait of her hair. Harry mounted his broom and soared out onto the pitch just as their penalty shot sailed through the centre goal. The moment he left his feet and began to fly his nerves settled and his heart slowed. He could see the opposing Seeker in white and gold robes circling and searching. Harry began his own circuit immediately—finding the Snitch would end this disastrous exhibition.

And it would be nice to beat this violent team.

* * *

"Oh my God, they put Harry in," Lily moaned. "I can't watch this."

"He'll be fine," James said, his gaze focused raptly on his estranged son. "We need a better set of Beaters; the protection has been substandard even aside from the ridiculous number of penalties."

"You son is about to be flattened over a hundred feet in the air, and you're commenting on our Beater situation?" Lily growled. "I don't like this game."

The other Seeker was paying Harry no mind. Apparently he thought the rookie kid unlikely to spot anything in his first match. James rocked on the balls of his feet, willing the snitch into his son's line of sight. He snaked an arm out around Isobel's shoulders. She didn't fight the closeness or try to shrug him away. She looked at least as nervous as Lily about her brother's safety.

"He sees it." James dropped to one knee beside Isobel and pointed to her rapidly accelerating sibling. "He's got it."

Then the crowd erupted in cheers.

James felt his heart swell with pride, and ache with longing. He should be there, not to just to watch but to congratulate, coach, and encourage. Hadn't he planned this type of future from the moment he held his infant son? Hadn't he dreamed that his son would share his passion and talent for this game? But he wasn't part of today's achievement, not the way he might have been. His son had never been trained by his father in flight or Quidditch. Aside from genetics, James had contributed nothing to his son's victory, and he would have no part in the celebration thanks to Dumbledore's plan.

"Why can't we just take him home?" Isobel asked her father quietly. "The longer we leave him out there, the harder it's going to be for him to leave."

James didn't stop clapping though he felt like Isobel had punched him. He hadn't let himself think about dragging his son away from something he loved, like a Quidditch team. There will be other teams and schools and friends, James told himself, but what twelve-year-old is mature enough to accept that kind of change without a fight? Isobel could see a problem coming and she was nine.

"It will work out," James said. But the platitude lacked conviction, and Isobel seemed far from reassured. "Trust me?"

Isobel nodded quickly and broke eye contact. It was hard not to trust her dad. He looked so much like her brother. Maybe she was being silly and pessimistic? "It will work out," Isobel echoed. "I'm glad we got to see him fly."

* * *

The Westies locker room buzzed with excitement and anxiety. Yes they just won an important match, but three of their starters were sequestered with Healers being put back together. Coach Vasco did not look pleased. He paced the centre of the room without speaking, allowing them time to get showered and changed.

Harry replaced his glasses and resumed his seat from earlier. Louise hadn't yet been released by the Healers of course. He glanced nervously at her empty space. Once all the healthy players were assembled, Coach stopped pacing.

"It was a victory today, barely. You knew what kind of goons this team fielded, and you didn't protect each other. We have to be a better team. We'll work on that tomorrow." Coach nodded to Harry and waved him over. Without ceremony, he presented the game's snitch to him, clapping him vaguely on the shoulder.

"Go on, celebrate with the twelve-year-old. He saved your asses today," Coach said.

Once Coach Vasco was gone, the other players gathered around him, ruffling his hair, clapping him on the back, and congratulating him on his first game and snitch catch. His heart sped, and Harry felt his face flush with pure pride and joy.

"Let's go," someone called and they were off. Harry let the team carry him in their current through a transportation circle and into a posh tavern. He let the older players buy him food and beverages, some of which had pungent alcohol like he'd never tasted before. After a few of those adult beverages the edges of Harry's vision blurred. He knew that he should probably find a player to spell him home, but instead he sipped the latest fruity drink, something called a fuzzy navel, and listened to Morag and Kelley, their starting Beaters, singing off key.

Joseph, his snaggle-toothed friend, threw back a shot of Firewhiskey and wrapped an arm around Harry. "So kid, are you ready to be a full time Quidditch player yet? Surely you can't enjoy school more than that rush out there today."

"It was amazing," Harry agreed, his speech only slightly slurred. "But I have to stay in school. I have to take care of my little sister. I'm all she's got." He hiccupped and shrugged helplessly.

"I get that." Joseph nodded. "How about I get you home then—wouldn't want to kill too many brain cells. Budge up." The other players groaned playfully about Joseph sending home the guest of honour before they could properly corrupt him, but the older Beater escorted Harry to the transportation circle and personally cast the activation charm.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Do you see what's coming next chapter? :)

If you are interested in the obligatory excuses on why I stopped posting, the old laptop caught a virus (Why the heck do I pay for Kapersky?). While it was getting repaired I moved onto a different laptop and did no writing. When old faithful came home, I'd lost the creative thread and didn't feel it again until recently. There are still four chapters on the hard drive from when I was last writing, but if I'm not writing, I don't post. Will post weekly, unless I stop writing again. Oh and life has been eventful lately, but when one is feeling like writing that doesn't matter. One makes time. :)

Peace!


	28. The Fall

**Chapter 27 – The Fall**

**All But Death Can Be Adjusted**

All but Death, can be Adjusted -  
Dynasties repaired -  
Systems - settled in their Sockets -  
Citadels - dissolved -

Wastes of Lives - resown with Colours  
By Succeeding Springs -  
Death - unto itself - Exception -  
Is exempt from Change –

Emily Dickenson (notable Squib poet of the eighteenth century)

* * *

Growing up an orphan in a Group Home, Harry rarely found himself the centre of attention. There were too many kids with too many needs for one face or voice to ever achieve importance in the eyes of a carer for more than a moment here or there. School had been immediately different. There weren't so many kids at the Class I school, and a Divination Stone had opined that Harry was potentially powerful. People in school knew his name, not just his peers but his professors and Headmistress, even the Regional Sheriff knew him through Draco.

Catching a snitch for their region's professional Quidditch team in an actual game changed everything again. He wasn't just Harry. He was a Quidditch star and everyone wanted to know him and touch him. Enduring a stuttering congratulations from a fourth year, Harry awkwardly shook her offered hand. "It was luck really," he assured her. Before anyone else could queue up to chat, he grabbed a plate of food and sat next to Ron and across from Hermione. "I feel like an exhibit at the zoo," Harry complained quietly. "Always thought I'd like being famous."

"Tired of your adoring public already?" Hermione asked sardonically. Her face contorted as though the next words were painful for her to formulate. "You were impressive up there. I've never seen anything like it."

Where all the strangers' attention and congratulations had begun to wear thin, hearing his friend's opinion stated so positively, left him glowing with pride. "It was at least half luck. I wish Draco's dad had brought my sister. She's never seen a Quidditch game either. I'll have to write her about it. Maybe next time we'll be able to smuggle her in."

"Next time maybe you shouldn't trust the blond ponce with something so important." Hermione frowned distrustfully. "Don't think I haven't noticed how scarce your class partner has been today."

Harry shrugged. "He made it to class. Maybe he hasn't been hungry?"

"A real mystery," Hermione said. "Maybe he's jealous."

From a few seats down, Millicent snorted derisively at Hermione. "Draco is not jealous of his best friend's success. I can see how you might assume that considering who you are and how you were brought up. Maybe Muggles can't gracefully cheer on a friend, but wizards are higher-minded in general."

"Who even asked you? It's rude to eavesdrop, Millicent." Hermione couldn't miss the disdainful roll of her classmates' eyes or the glances the other girls exchanged. "You can't seriously believe the drivel you're spouting. We're all humans and humans feel things—sometimes even when they don't want too like jealousy or fear or _anger_." Hermione's fingers were wrapped so tight around her fork that they ached, but she kept her tone even and her hands on the table. "And Draco isn't a great example of high-minded wizards. He threatened to get Harry declassified the first day he met him. He was so jealous, so desperate to be the class' top student, he was willing to cheat and scheme to achieve it."

Cutting off Millicent's next comment Lisa spoke up. "There is nothing wrong with a little scheming and cheating from time to time if it gets you what you want. Hermione's fundamentally correct. We're all human, but I don't think Draco's jealous, at least not today."

Harry's eyes followed the argument from girl to girl. Hermione seemed to be keeping her cool surprisingly well and making good points, while Millie looked ready to draw her wand. A gentle tap to his shoulder and Harry turned. Draco rolled his eyes dismissively at the arguing girls. "We need to talk. Are you finished eating?"

Harry nodded, unsure what to make of Draco's serious demeanour and earlier aloofness. Surely he wasn't suddenly jealous like Hermione thought? "Yeah, I've had enough."

When Harry rose, attention shifted back to him and those who hadn't already, finally noticed Draco's arrival. Millicent's round cheeks flushed red to be caught gossiping so vocally. Hermione just smirked, unconcerned if she had further alienated the _blond ponce_.

"So, what's up?" Harry asked.

Rather than answer, Draco quietly and quickly led his friend to an empty classroom. He cast a pair of simple but effective privacy and locking charms on the door. "You need to read this. My dad sent it this morning. I flooed him after ecology and it's all for real. I had to be sure before showing you. He didn't bring your sister to the game. He explained why in the letter. Just read it." Draco thrust the folded parchment at Harry.

Puzzled and now more than a little worried, Harry carefully unfolded the letter and skimmed the neat slanted curls of Lucius Malfoy's calligraphy.

_Dear Draco,_

_Your mother sends her love. We both remain pleased with the wizards and witches you ally yourself with. Continue to cultivate associates that show promise and leadership. Lisa of course must always be your priority. _

_Unfortunately, I was unable to accommodate your friend's request. A contagious illness has struck several of the empire's orphanages, and your friend's home was hit hard. Because of my position I was able to acquire the list of the deceased, and regretfully, Isobel Green did not survive the outbreak. _

_You may tell your friend that the deceased have been cremated en masse. There will be no individual memorial stones placed for the children because of the sheer numbers and their lack of family. A tasteful monument outside the home listing the deceased has been proposed and will likely be commissioned in the next few weeks once we are certain the list of the dead is final. _

_Your Father,_

_Lucius _

Methodically, Harry's eyes devoured the letter again and again. Top to bottom he scanned the words. Rereading would not change the meaning, but he couldn't make his mind process the message. _Isobel Green did not survive._

Isobel.

His sister did not survive.

While he had been flying and playing, basking in the glory of the moment, his only family in the world had been either dead or dying. His little sister was a lump of ash interspersed with the other dead. She wouldn't even warrant a headstone in the grand scheme of things.

Without consciously deciding to do anything, Harry ripped the offending letter in half and brushed past Draco. He pushed once ineffectively at the locked door before a flare of wild accidental magic unsealed the exit with a blast that knocked the door from its hinges.

"Harry wait." Draco quickly collected the pieces of letter and followed his fast retreating friend. "Where are you going?"

"To see for myself," Harry answered brusquely. He practically flew up the steps, weaving against the flow of students heading for afternoon classes. The second year dorm stood empty; Harry strode to his bedside and his personal broom.

The smooth wood felt so comfortable under his hands. One of his most prized possessions, Harry hadn't had a chance to show his sister this broom or take her for a ride. She'd never seen a Quidditch game much less played in one and now she never would. Gods, he hadn't written her one letter this year. She died alone with oblivious carers that didn't even realize she had a brother who should be notified of her illness.

Harry took a single step toward the door, unsure what he thought he would see out there. Wherever he flew, he wasn't going to find his family. The last bit had perished and her remains had been scattered to the winds.

A blond head peaked around the door. "Harry, are you okay?"

That quiet question pushed some invisible button inside Harry, and tears began to fall. Dropping his broom with a clatter, he sank to the floor and buried his face in his hands.

Unaccustomed to dealing with tears or grief, Draco tentatively approached. He sat on the floor, just short of touching his trembling friend and rested his arms and chin on his knees. He couldn't find any words to help or console. He couldn't relate to such substantial loss when he had never lost anything important.

He clasped Harry's shoulder in a moment's epiphany and squeezed. Further inspired by his mother's ministrations at childhood moments of illness, Draco rubbed slow circles on Harry's back while the thin boy shook with quiet sobs.

When the sobs began to ebb and Harry uncurled enough to resume a more normal sitting position, Draco ceased his impromptu back rub. "Do you want me to get someone?" Draco asked quietly. "A professor maybe?"

"There isn't anyone to get." Harry laughed hollowly while wiping at his swollen eyes.

For an irrational moment, Draco blamed his father and his coolly worded letter for hurting Harry. Lucius Malfoy's only concern in the situation was whether they appeared powerful to a Turpin. And while he knew his father wasn't to blame for Harry's sister's death, he wished his father had it in him to care for something outside his political aspirations. "I hate this. There isn't anyone to punish, nothing to change or help or fix. It just is."

"I deserve to be punished," Harry said. "She died alone because I wasn't paying attention."

Draco scowled, certain that Harry needed a kick in the pants for that twist of self-recriminating nonsense. "Don't be an idiot. It's not like you could have saved her. What she had was contagious. If you went to her it probably would have killed you too." He shook his head. "Do you really think your sister would have wanted you to die?"

"No, but she was _nine_ and my responsibility." Harry shrugged and gestured vaguely as though the logic were obvious. "I could have at least written her, been close, kept them from burning her. They burned her up and dumped her in with everyone else. It's like she never existed."

"Untrue. She has a brother who isn't going to forget her." Draco glanced at the clock and winced. "Well, she has a brother for now. We're missing Dark Arts class. Riddle may murder us later."

"He might give me a veto to match yours," Harry croaked hoarsely. He crossed his arms over his knees and rested his chin on top, mimicking Draco's pose. He and Draco would never be mistaken for siblings. Their features and mannerisms were too different, but Harry felt less alone with his class partner and friend by his side. He almost felt like he had a bit of family left to prop him up.

"You should get to class, Draco." Harry managed a brittle pained smile and rose gracefully.

"Don't you mean we should get to class?" Draco asked. "Where are you going?"

"Home of course." Harry pushed open the nearest window, and without giving Draco a chance to argue, he mounted his broom and flew away.

* * *

Hermione entered Dark Arts class alone. She selected a cushion and placed her books to her side. Keeping her wand in hand, Hermione scanned the room for danger. You never knew when Riddle would attack with a practical demonstration. To her left Lisa reclined, wand held deceptively loosely, otherwise the room appeared empty.

The clock wound forward and Riddle arrived exactly on time. Hermione glanced at the vacant cushions Harry and Draco should be using and wondered what was keeping them. They both knew better than to needle this professor. Both were keenly interested in the apprenticeship the Professor could provide. What could have happened to them?

Riddle crossed his arms and levelled a dispassionate stare on the empty cushions. "Books out," he commanded. "Read chapter fifteen."

Once Hermione and Lisa were adequately occupied, Riddle settled behind his desk mostly oblivious to their presence. In his years teaching, searching for his apprentice, he had never been surprised by a student's reaction to his mission. Some students inevitably withdrew; always exactly the students he predicted.

Looking at the girls in front of him, Riddle saw no potential surprises. Lisa might withdraw, with her family connections she didn't need his apprenticeship and would have no reason to sacrifice her freedom for it. Hermione on the other hand, had nothing and aspired to influence if not power. She would stay to the bitter end and might even be the student he was looking for.

In the first class since he informed them that he was looking for an apprentice, the two boys were conspicuous in their absence. Were Green and Malfoy in Professor Noyce's class today? He hadn't predicted that move.

With Draco's upbringing, he could only see his continued inclusion in this class as a tangible chance to reverse the veto on his cheek. Riddle didn't consider him a viable option as an apprentice, but keeping him around and torturing him with the possibility would have been amusing. That Draco would just quit did not fit with his assessment of the boy.

If anything, Harry's absence disturbed him more. In many ways, watching Harry had been like watching himself at that age. Powerful but disadvantaged by their births, both gathered allies easily. He had seen a potential for brutality in Harry, potential for real power. He would need the right stimulus, the right mentor, but Riddle felt himself quite up to the task. But maybe he had misread them all.

He spared a glance for Hermione and Lisa, still diligently reading. "That will be sufficient for today ladies. Class dismissed."

Without waiting for the girls to pack up and leave, Riddle strode from the classroom and across the hall to his office. With a careless wave of his wand, a quill and parchment took up writing positions at his desk. The two boys were either skiving off his class or they hadn't seen fit to inform him of their plan to join Professor Noyce's Dark Arts Class. Either explanation showed unacceptable, maddening disrespect.

"Formal detentions, Harry Green and Draco Malfoy, tomorrow at seven pm. Send." The quill scratched out a standard detention slip twice. The parchments folded themselves neatly and vanished.

* * *

An angry orange runic circle surrounded London's only Group Home. It cast a sickly light over the area warning everyone to remain clear, plague within. Broom tucked under his arm, Harry ignored the warning. He got as far as the crisply drawn perimeter line before the magic of the circle reacted, pulsing to life. It surged around him, a warm orange wave that flushed him back and held him captive. He struggled, swimming against the snare but the spell held him securely.

He wasn't forced to wait in the trap for long. An older woman in simple gray robes released him only to snatch him firmly by the ear. "Were you trying to get in you scrawny urchin? Eh? Don't you know better than to cross a warded runic circle? Where would you be if it had been set to kill?"

Squirming in pain, Harry answered, "I came to check on my little sister. No one bothered to tell me she might be sick. Once I found out, I came." He spun his half-truth, some part of him hoping that Lucius Malfoy had it wrong and Isobel was still safely inside, maybe already recovering.

The irate carer released her painful grip on his ear and her expression softened a degree. "What's your sister's name?"

"Isobel Green," Harry supplied quickly. "Can I come in and look for her? Please?"

"No, you daft boy. Do you want to die? There are active cases of rutilus terminus still being treated in there." She pulled an enchanted parchment from her pocket and released it in front of him. It hung in the air, glowing softly. "If you speak her name, it will activate if she's inside and alive. Depending on the colour it will even tell you how she's doing."

Hopeful despite all logic, Harry stepped up to the parchment and spoke clearly. "Isobel Green." The glowing parchment flashed weakly but produced no name. "Isobel Green, Is-o-bel Green," Harry repeated enunciating each syllable. "It isn't working right."

The carer knelt next to Harry, her wrinkled features set in concerned lines. "Let's test it." She addressed the parchment clearly. "Joey Freeman."

At the woman's words a name appeared in blue. "It seems to be working for Joey. She's doing well. I'll try your sister. Isobel Green." Joey's name disappeared but no name replaced it. The woman continued delicately, "Mr. Green, it seems your sister isn't here anymore. Quite a few children have died."

"And you burned them all up." Harry glared at the stupid parchment, his vision doubling and ears ringing. The enchanted document exploded in Harry's second display of accidental magic since learning about his sister's death. Specks of flame and ashes rained down around their heads. The old woman covered her face and scampered back, but Harry felt no shame at his outburst. "Maybe someone should have told me that my sister was sick before she died!"

With a grim flourish, he mounted his broom and kicked off. He ascended steeply until the old gray building that had been his home was little more than a receding speck behind him. He flew recklessly on, diving, swooping and spiralling. Forget physics, forget gravity, forget the safety specifications of his broom, Harry let his magic and the charms in the broom thrum together. He and the broom were one entity, indivisible.

No thought but the next stunt in his head, Harry's tears disappeared into the screaming wind unable to fall properly.

He never wanted to land.

* * *

Melinda Potter's sitting room didn't resemble the formal entertaining rooms most women of her generation cultivated. She saw guests in the room, but they were treated to the sight of open books, rolls of parchment and various work clutter. Settled back in her comfortable, paisley-patterned wingback, she put aside her current reading and quirked an eyebrow at her only child.

James had his father's wild hair and hazel eyes, but he had her energy and passion. He paced the room, his expression alternately pleased and pensive. She could see that he needed to talk and suspected she knew what about.

"How was the game then? Did you get to see Harry? Did he fly?" Melinda asked.

"Did he fly? You should have seen him, Mum. He's talented, better than me." James settled on the sofa next to some unbound parchment. "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, just going home and not taking him with me. He should have known his parents were watching his game." Unable to remain seated, he resumed pacing. "I could kill Peter, Oscasia, anyone who had a hand in the kidnapping. I want to punish them and our glorious empire that perpetuates monsters like them."

Melinda shook her head. "There's a Muggle saying: before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves. You have a family to take care of. It's time to retire from the rebellion, set aside revenge and protect those babies. Be responsible for once in your life. Fixing the empire won't be accomplished at wand point."

"You spent your life trying to make a difference at quill point. That never changed anything. The rebellion you sneer about; we've done a lot of good, saved people, hindered the empire. Besides, I'm too deeply placed to just resign," James said. "Lily is stepping back. She's going to brew for the effort. She'll be with the children full time." He couldn't tell his mother about Lily's curse that necessitated that change as much as he wanted to. It was Lily's secret and he couldn't betray that confidence even to his own mother.

"That's responsible of her for a change." Melinda rose and intercepted her pacing son. "You know something? I don't think you're ever in too deep to quit, not until you're dead or featured on a wanted poster. You've given Albus Dumbledore enough of your life and your family. Think about it. You're still young. Second chances aren't so common that you should just sneer at yours. Please?"

Instead of answering back, James enfolded his mother in a tight hug. "April is a long time away. We're going to have to make some decisions once Harry is home. I swear to think about it." James murmured into his mother's soap-smelling gray hair. "You realize that Solstice is right around the corner and he won't be home. Sometimes I don't think I can wait for the spring. I thought I could but that was before seeing him. I want to go get him right now."

Melinda stepped back and cupped James face fondly. "Waiting keeps him and his sister safe. It's terrible but necessary. The empire can never know they're really alive and safely home. They stole them once. We can't ever let that happen again," Melinda comforted fiercely. "You'll have six Solstices to make up for anyway. What's one more?"

"One Solstice is everything," James replied, "But you're right. I know you're right."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

The first part of this story is winding to its climax. Next chapter starts setting up the second act more clearly. While I tend to favor happy endings in fics, it's never been clear that this story would have one. The outline always skewed dark in the final sections. But who knows, this fic tends to meander.

I will say that Draco's voice gets a bit obscure in this chapter. He's human and has claimed Harry as a friend, but i worry that his characterization has drifted too close to center, if you know what I mean.


End file.
